


Something Old, Something New

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-21 19:53:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2480441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur/Gwaine</p><p>Merlin and Morgana are very protective of Arthur, so when he starts dating Gwaine,they don't approve. (Because he seems flighty and flirty or not as serious about relationships as Arthur, etc.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur, Merlin and Morgana are in café Nero when Arthur tells them. They exchange a long look, wondering, scheming, planning. It falls on Morgana to talk.

"That's lovely, dear," she says, putting as much distraction in her voice as she can when she's paying this much attention.

"Morgana!" Arthur says, straw flipping out from between his teeth, "are you even listening? I said I accidentally slept with Gwaine!"

"I heard you," Merlin says, "how do you accidentally sleep with something? Trip over onto his cock, did you?"

"I did not do that, no," Arthur says, blushing.

Merlin closes his eyes to gather his patience and exchanges another look with Morgana. She can take that one.

"Arthur, did you fall over onto Gwaine's willy, darling?" Morgana says, patronising now.

"No! I just... fell into his lap when he had a boner. And then... we kind of had just a little bit of sex. In your swimming pool."

Morgana shrieks, all acting falling away in disgust. She pulls out her phone and jabs in Gwen's number, holding it to her ear, seething.

"Hello?" Gwen says.

"It's Morgana, Gwen. I blocked my number for reasons. Anyway. Arthur had sex in the pool. Can we please please do something? Like sterilise it? With bleach?"

"Ah. I already emptied it and cleaned in, in anticipation for this moment," Gwen says.

"You knew?" Morgana yells.

Both Arthur and Merlin wince at the decibel she reaches.

"Oh. Well, yes, I did. Gwaine told Percy who told Lance who told me."

"Gwaine told Percy? Why on earth?"

"Why did Arthur tell you?" Gwen says, as if that solves everything.

"Because he knows that if he keeps those kinds of secrets from Merlin and me we'll slowly but surely torture him until he's a little puddle of goo?" Morgana suggests, frowning.

"...oh. Gwaine told Percy because Gwaine likes talking about sex and he likes gossiping. And he likes making Percy blush."

"So the pool's decontaminated? Because I have an Arthur to tell off, here."

"Yes, the pool is fine."

"Great. Bye."

Morgana hangs up and goes back to glaring, then carefully softens her face until it could almost be a smile.

"That's frightening, Banana," Merlin says, poking her cheek, curious to see if he can feel the unreality of the smile in her skin.

"I didn't tell you about Gwaine because I'm scared of you, actually," Arthur says, offended, "I told you because... umm..."

Arthur searches for a reason, but he can't find one. Merlin smiles at him and Arthur makes a face at him, then laughs.

"You two are awful," Arthur says, "shut up."

"Now. You're not going to sleep with him again, are you?" Morgana says, getting back to business.

"I didn't sleep with him," Arthur says, "I had sex with him. It's different. Definitely no sleep involved."

"You won't do it again, though, right?" Merlin says, taking up the thread, "you know what Gwaine is like, you know who he is."

"I know," Arthur says, sucking up milkshake through his straw again, now the main danger of their anger has passed and they've got to the lecturing phase, "I won't."

The lecture goes on a bit, which is why Arthur bought a milkshake AND a packet of maple syrup waffles AND a piece of chocolate cake.

 

* * *

 

Arthur's sitting on Morgana's sofa, legs curled under him, trying to watch Doctor Who with Merlin. They've been having endless Moffat arguments lately and Arthur wants ammo for their next one, but he's distracted. His phone beeps again.

_**muppet** _

Arthur bites his lip and smiles at the screen, and texts back;

 

> _**just because you happen to know that you meant a pub by 'spoons' doesn't mean that you have to mock me for thinking we were gonna play cards** _

_**so u sd. r u cmng ovr 2nght?** _

 

> _**no, watching dr w wit M** _

_**BORING! if u cm over, I will do tht thng you <3, :D** _

Arthur blushes and shifts, shifting. He knows the thing.

"Who on earth are you texting?" Merlin says, bad tempered, "stop squirming."

"It's just Gwaine," Arthur says, unthinking.

"Gwaine? Why are you texting him? Is he upsetting your delicate, prudish sensibilities and making you blush?"

"I'm texting him because he's trying to talk me into going to the pub," Arthur says, covering quickly.

"Tell him to bugger off. You're being disruptive."

Arthur breathes out a sigh of relief at getting away with

 

> _**gtg, M is asking questions** _
> 
>  

* * *

 

FIVE MONTHS LATER

Merlin watches Arthur. He's sitting on the sofa, beer in hand, gesturing at the screen and yelling at Leon who's beside him.

"I hate football," Morgana says, watching Gwen with baleful eyes where Gwen's glued to the screen.

Merlin glances over just in time to see Gwen throw her arms up and cover Gwaine in her beer. Merlin's about to start laughing, but then Gwaine just whips his shirt off, poses, spins, and throws the sopping shirt at Arthur's head. Arthur catches it without looking and throws Gwaine the hoody Arthur had been wearing. Merlin narrows his eyes.

"Morgana, have you noticed Arthur being weird lately?" Merlin asks.

"Lately? He was born weird," Morgana say, still distracted by Gwen.

"No. Weirder than usual. He's always got his head stuck in his phone, and he spends a lot of time out with people who aren't you and me, and he blushes at weird moments and gets shifty sometimes and his lies are dreadful, so I know that he's lying to me about stuff at the moment. I just don't know why or what on earth he's trying to cover up."

Morgana shifts her attention and narrows her eyes.

"Yes. He has been lying, hasn't he?"

She gets up and stalks through to the livingroom, sitting at Gwen's feet and tickling them. Gwen shrieks and bats at Morgana's head, then settles her hand in Morgana's hair and bends forward to kiss the top of her head.

"Sorry love, did I abandon you to stinky Merlin?" Gwen says, amused.

"You did. Arthur's house sucks," Morgana says.

"How can I make it be- no! Fucking twots!" Gwen yells, waving at the screen.

"Please don't tip more stuff on me, Gwendy," Gwaine drawls, nudging her.

"Fuck off. That was way off! Can't kick for shit!" Gwen says.

"Calm your tits," Arthur says, "it wasn't that bad. It's the wind, and the pitch is uneven. Give him a chance to get a feel for it, he's only just come on. He has a good boot."

"Oh you can go fuck yourself too," Gwen snaps, then bursts out laughing, "sorry. Right! Calming down. Mogs, anything I can get you?"

"No. I want Arthur's ipad," Morgana says.

Merlin frowns, wondering what she's doing.

"I dunno where that is," Gwen says.

"Arthur?" Morgana says.

"Busy," Arthur says, eyes never leaving the screen, lip caught between his teeth.

"I want the ipad!" Morgana says, pitch steadily rising.

"Will you shut up?" Gwaine says, "I'll get the bloody thing for you if you'll just be quiet and let me watch."

Gwaine stalks out, stomping upstairs. Morgana sends Merlin a significant look when Gwaine comes back with the ipad and headphones, which he dumps in Morgana's lap, and Merlin's eyes widen.

"Oh no! Fuck right off!" Merlin yells, getting to his feet.

Morgana rolls her eyes and gestures him down again, but everyone's already staring.

"What are you getting worked up about?" Arthur asks, the only one still watching the screen, "did an ant bite you?"

"No. Sorry. Just remembered... a thing."

Merlin subsides, ignoring Morgana's snort, and pulls out his phone to sign into Facebook and message her.

Arthur and Gwaine?

we shall see about that.

Merlin nods grimly and exchange a long look across the rowdy football crowd. They wait until everyone except Gwen has left, Gwen being responsible and washing up and impossible to get rid of without Arthur making a fuss about having to do them instead. He’s lying on his back on the floor, humming, hand running over his stomach because his shirt’s soft. He looks incredibly young, like he never grew out of being a child. Merlin sits on the floor by his head and Morgana takes the arm chair.

“You’re dating Gwaine, aren’t you?” Morgana says.

Arthur jerks, eyes going wide, but then he relaxes again and sighs.

“I suppose you had to work it out at some point. Yeah, I’m dating him. Have been for about two months now, officially,” Arthur says.

“Oh Arthur,” Merlin says, unable to keep the pity from his voice.

“Go away, both of you. I like him, he likes me, none of your business and all that.”

“We’re just worried for you,” Morgana says, “We don’t want you to get hurt. People don’t get to hurt you, they just don’t.”

“Thanks, but Gwaine’s nice.”

Merlin takes that one.

“He’s charming, and he’s a good mate, and he’s fun, and he’s lovely, but he’s not ‘nice’. He isn’t reliable, he doesn’t commit to things, he isn’t responsible. There will come a point where you will need to move forward and Gwaine just won’t.”

“How do you know?” Arthur says, “no, don’t answer that, I don’t want a list of his flaws, thanks, I know them. We’re doing fine at the moment.”

“What about when he goes away?” Morgana asks.

“You mean teaching? He doesn’t usually do more than six months, and I have enough money to visit. I’ve never had a reason to travel before, it could be fun,” Arthur says, smile breaking out again, fingers rubbing against the soft cotton.

Merlin jerks his head to get Morgana’s attention, then shakes it ‘no’. If they confront Arthur they’ll just make it worse. Besides, it’s no harm at the moment. They don’t have to approve of all Arthur’s boyfriends. Gwaine will get tired soon, before Arthur falls too deep, and they’ll pick up the pieces and it’ll be fine. Morgana hesitates, then nods.

“Stop it,” Arthur says, “stop talking about me.”

“I didn't say a thing,” Merlin says.

“You two never have to. You’re just… creepy. Gwen! Come through and take your girlfriend home, would you? And tell Lance that I really, really want him to come shopping with me next week and will love him forever if he covers for me.”

“I’ll tell him when I see him. Come on, Mogs, home time. Are we giving Merlin a lift?” Gwen says, coming through, drying her hands on her jeans.

“Yes,” Merlin says, getting up.

They leave Arthur on the floor, humming, running his hands over the carpet.

 

* * *

 

SIX MONTHS LATER 

Arthur feels like a train ran him over when he wakes up. His head aches, his stomach hurts, he feels weak and woozy and sweaty. He sighs and rolls over, looking for Gwaine, but Gwaine’s not there. Arthur looks further with his hands and body, then gives in and opens his eyes. It’s quite light, but it’s still early, and there’s no Gwaine. Arthur sits up and looks around the room, but Gwaine really isn’t there at all.

Arthur pouts, but when Gwaine doesn’t appear Arthur drags himself out of bed and looks for something warm before shuffling out into the kitchen/dining/living area of Gwaine’s flat. Gwaine’s there, sitting at the table, already dressed and showered and eating breakfast. Arthur makes for him, shuffling, and pulls a chair across so he can sit beside him and lean on him and press his head into Gwaine’s shoulder and moan.

“Morning,” Gwaine says, “why are you awake? It’s only, like, five thirty.”

“Why’re you awake?” Arthur says, or attempts to say. The words get a bit muddled and incoherent somewhere.

“Sorry? What?” Gwaine says, sounding too amused.

Arthur just grunts and shuts his eyes again, trying to drift off. He’d have managed it, too, but Gwaine turns towards him and displaces him, making him sit up. Arthur glares.

“Seriously, why are you up?” Gwaine says, “did you come to wave me off? We said bye last night.”

Arthur feels his insides empty out, like all his guts and blood and bones fall out the soles of his feet, as he realises why Gwaine is awake at this hour.

“You’re leaving,” Arthur says, stupidly (of course THIS comes out clear).

“Yeah. It’s only six weeks, though,” Gwaine says, smiling and touching Arthur’s cheek.

“I feel like shit,” Arthur says, mournful.

“Mm. You feel warm, are you feverish? Are you sick?”

“Dunno, dunno. I have a headache, and my stomach kind of hurts.”

Gwaine moves his hand to Arthur’s head and frowns, then gets up. Arthur watches him move across to the tiny bathroom and blinks, and when his eyes open Gwaine’s back, crouching in front of him, with a thermometer.

“You teleported,” Arthur says.

“No, you just have heavy eyelids. I can’t believe I knew what you meant by that. I speak ‘you’. Open wide like a good little boy.”

Arthur does as he’s told and holds the thermometer under his tongue until Gwaine tries to remove it. It doesn’t come out.

“Arthur, you have to let go of it. You’re biting it,” Gwaine explains, laughing.

He’s right. Arthur opens his mouth the thermometer comes out easily. He closes his eyes again.

“Oh, yeah, you’re sick,” Gwaine says, “come on, I’ll help you back to bed and call one of your keepers.”

“Keepers?” Arthur mumbles, letting Gwaine half lift him out of the chair and help him stumble back to the bedroom.

“Merlin and Morgana.”

“My keepers?” Arthur asks, rolling under the covers, “can’t you stay?”

“You’re pathetic, mate. And no, I can’t stay, I have to work,” Gwaine says.

His words are softened when he sits on the bed and tucks Arthur in, kissing him a bit breathless, and then letting him curl round Gwaine’s hip. Arthur shuts his eyes again. When he opens them it’s far brighter and Gwaine’s vanished. Arthur feels like this is too much of a habit and tries to tell Gwaine that, but Merlin’s there instead.

“Hey, you’re awake,” Merlin says, “how’re you feeling?”

He reaches out to feel Arthur’s forehead, frowning, and then rolls back the covers. Arthur shivers, then flops over so he has his back to Merlin because he can feel tears coming.

“It’s just the fever,” Merlin says, noticing, “it’s fine. Unless Gwaine did something?”

Arthur shakes his head.

“He left!” Arthur wails, surprising himself, and then bursts into noisy tears.

Later, in the evening, Arthur leaves Merlin in the living room and goes to Skype Gwaine. He messages, then waits, then messages, then waits. He knows Gwaine is on, because he just talked to Merlin, so he messages a third time. Gwaine finally answers, laughing.  


“Arthur, mate!” Gwaine says, “Sorry. I was talking to one of the guys I’m going to be teaching here with.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“It’s so cool. It’s so cold outside, but everywhere has amazing heating inside. I’m staying pretty much at the school, it’s like two minutes walk. Everyone speaks English, so I haven’t had a chance to practise my Russian yet, but I have a nice stock of phrases meaning ‘shut up and be quiet’.”

“Kay. Is that where you are? Russia?”

“Yes. In the Urals, more or less. I’m going mountain climbing next weekend! So cool. With the guy I was just talking to. There’s a military base just round the corner, too, which makes me feel SO safe.”

“Oh.”

“What’s up?”

“I’m sick.”

“Mm, I remember. I meant other than that?”

“Hate you being in Russia.”

“Only six weeks, remember?”

“Not I hate you being away, I hate you being there particularaly. It makes me uneasy. Can I visit you soon?”

“Arthur, it’s only six weeks.”

Merlin choses that time to make his presence known and Arthur feels guilty, for some reason, and defensive.

“I know,” Arthur says, “I’m just being silly because I have a fever. Six weeks is nothing. I have so much to do, I won’t even have time to visit.”

“I would love to see you, but I’m working every second weekend, and five days a week, so my time is limited. I can see if there’s space anywhere? The teachers do a lot of sort of structured sigh seeing, as well, though.”

“No, no, I was just belly aching.”

“How is your stomach? Oh, hang on, there’s someone at the door.”

Arthur watches Gwaine vanish, feeling miserable. He’s tired and his head still hurts and his stomach has gone from aching to queasy over the course of the day. His cup of tea is very nice, but isn’t really solving anything.

“You alright?” Merlin asks, coming over and sitting beside him.

Arthur knows that he’s a bit cross with Merlin for being a dick about Gwaine, and he knows that he doesn’t like that Merlin doesn’t like Gwaine, but he’s tired and sick so he leans into Merlin’s body and lets Merlin wrap his arms around him.

“Just tired,” Arthur says.

Gwaine comes back, and a young woman pops onto the screen too.

“Hi Gwaine’s boyfriend!” She says brightly, waving, “oh, he’s hot! So thin and tall and such lovely dark hair.”

“Arthur’s the other one,” Gwaine says, sounding like he’s holding back laughter, “the pathetic slump of goo there. He’s not feeling good.”

 

 

“Oh,” the woman says, looking surprised, “um, hello. Oops! You’re hot too.”

“Wow, thanks,” Arthur says, “so generous. You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Right! I’m Elena,” She says, waving again, “nice to meet you. I’ll leave you to it, I literally just popped by to see if this one wanted anything to eat before he SLEEPS!”

She shoves Gwaine, eyes bright, and Gwaine catches her round the waist and tugs her into his lap making her shriek. Arthur’s used to Gwaine flirting with anything that moves and he doesn’t really notice that he’s flirting with Elena until Merlin makes a disapproving noise. Once he’s noticed it he doesn’t know what to do. The longer Gwaine does it, the worse Merlin will be, but he doesn’t want to come across as jealous when he’s not. He coughs instead of making a decision, getting everyone’s attention. 

“Aw, you look really sick,” Elena says, “I’ll go. Gwaine, you do need to sleep because you have lots of induction stuff tomorrow.”

“I know. I just called to say goodnight, I promise,” Gwaine says. 

Ellena leaves with another wave and Gwaine watches her go before turning back, grinning. 

“She’s nice,” Arthur says, slumping further into Merlin.

“You are truly and completely pathetic when you’re not well,” Gwaine says.

“I know,” Arthur says, grinning at Gwaine, a bit lost in how affectionate Gwaine sounds when he says that, as if it’s the best thing anyone sick can possibly be, as if there’s no other way he ever wants Arthur to act.

“I wish I was there to sleep with you. Are you still at mine?” 

“Yeah, didn’t feel up to traipsing home and Merlin hasn’t a car. Morgana’s getting us after she finishes work and I’m gonna stay with her and Gwen. Or I’m staying with her, Gwen’s not there.”

“Where is she?”

“At Lance’s for a bit. Lance wanted a bit more couply time with her, so… yeah. They probably had, like, a three hour round-table discussion on it to communicate effectively. Morgana says that being poly makes you awesome or something so you’re automatically a brilliant communicator.”

“Otherwise you fail. I know, I’ve done it before.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I dated a woman for about four months, once, who had a husband, and a girlfriend. It was brilliant.”

“Are we…” Arthur asks, fever muddling his brain. 

“No. I would have talked to you about that. I want to be monogamous, at least to attempt that. I know it’s what you need.”

“Oh.”

“We should go, we both need sleep. You look absolutely shattered.”

“Mm.”

“Hey, Arthur?”

“Yeah?”

“I… is it okay? Me being gone?”

Arthur frowns. It’s not what Gwaine means. They’ve talked about it, they both decided to try it, so he doesn’t mean that. Oh. 

“I’ll miss you, already miss you, and it’s a bit rough that I’m feeling shite the first time, but I’ll manage,” Arthur says, “and I can… yeah.”

He remember’s Merlin’s sat with him and doesn’t go into details about his dreams and the times he calls Gwaine and all that crap. Gwaine smiles, understanding anyway. 

“Okay. Let me know, though?”

“Yeah. Kay. Goodnight, okay?”

“Yeah, you too.”

Arthur waits for Gwaine to shut the computer before logging off. 

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur only stays with Morgana for one night. Merlin and her keep giving him pitying, sympathetic looks and speaking in quiet voices where Arthur only catches Gwaine’s name. They both bring him tea and sit with him, watching him drink, saying things like ‘if you want to talk…’ and ‘how are you doing?’. 

 

  
“I don’t know what’s wrong with them!” he rants at Gwaine, later, on Skype. 

“They just don’t think I’m good for you, that’s all. They’re being protective. Arseholes, but protective ones.”

“I wish your arsehole was here instead of my multiple ones.”

“Oh my God, you are a total freak,” Gwaine says, laughing, “three aresholes! Oh, hey, that could make for some interesting sex.”

“Do not do that. Don’t put Merlin and Morgana in your weird sex fantasies.”

“Now I’m going to go throw up. I was actually imagining-“

Arthur jolts, suddenly, to his feet and dashes to the bathroom, stomach deciding to go from ‘queasy’ to ‘actually anywhere but inside of Arthur’ in three seconds flat. He throws up for about five minutes, horribly embarrassed by the awful retching sounds he makes. He’s mostly just throwing up tea, really, and stomach acid. When he’s done he just sits on the floor for a while, shaky. 

“Arthur!” Gwaine yells from the computer, speakers crackling. 

Arthur sighs and starts to get to his feet, then decides against it and crawls back, commandeering a bin on his way.

“You look awful,” Gwaine says, cheerfully. 

“Fuck off you wanker. This is all your fault. If it wasn’t for you I’d be able to go be babied by Merlin and Morgana. They’d say nice things and rub my belly and wrap me in duvets. As it is, they’re just wankers too.”

“Buck up! Six weeks will fly by and I’l be home to baby you.”

“I am not going to be sick for six weeks, I refuse.”

Gwaine laughs, and then his face softens and he leans closer to the screen, inspecting what Arthur can only imagine is his sweaty face. He hopes he doesn’t have vomit in his teeth. 

“You really do look miserable,” Gwaine says, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine. It’s literally just the flu, I’m just being a big baby to get your sympathy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, stop worrying. Can I call you lots and lots?”

“Sure.”

“I was going to be all manly and not need to talk to you and just get on with life while you were gone and it was all gonna be awesome.”

“I think it would help if your mates weren’t being twats. Hey, why not call Lance or Perce over? I know they’re not gonna want to baby you, but it might be good to have someone there.”

 

  
“Stop worrying.”

“Will you call someone?”

“I guess. I’ll call Leon, he owes me- I cleaned up after him last time he got wasted and nearly ruined Morgana’s rug.”

“Good.”

“Are you going?”

“No. Do you still have a fever.”

“No. It broke last night. Morgana and Merls would never have let me come home if I was all feverish. I reckon I’ll be better tomorrow. I’m just being miserable.”

Arthur lets himself be utterly pathetic, lets Gwaine laugh at him and worry in equal amounts, then calls Leon and forces him to come over. It turns out that Leon isn’t actually dreadful at caring for pathetic sick people- he bundles Arthur up on the sofa, makes sure he eats and drinks enough, gives him a bowl to vomit in and a box of tissues. He also stays the night and then waits the next day until they’re certain Arthur isn’t nauseas anymore before leaving Arthur to sleep it off. 

Once he’s better, Merlin and Morgana leave him alone. Mostly because he tells them to bug out and leave him alone. As he explains to Gwaine, he’s pretty sure it’s more because they’re planning that because they’re actually gonna leave him alone, but it’s good enough. After five weeks, though, Arthur kind of wants them to bug in. He’s lying at home on the sofa, knackered from work, and all he wants is a giant pizza and the soft bit of Gwaine’s stomach as a pillow. 

“I hate you,” he tells Gwaine, who’s he’s talking to (on the phone this time, for some reason). 

“I know,” Gwaine says, far, far too happy. 

“I really hate you. I should just ring Morgana and tell her I give in and she can do her voodoo magic and bring you back.”

“She doesn’t have voodoo magic, Arthur, she just poked you with pins and called it that.”

“I’m so tired. Tell me about that funny boy who jumps out of the window.”

“He doesn’t jump out of the window. He just has interesting ideas about where to guide his fellow students. In fact, he tries to make them jump out of the window.”

Gwaine voice goes soothing and low as he talks about his students latest exploits, an underlying tone of affection and amusement softening it further. Arthur falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

****

  
  
"He came back early," Morgana says, bursting into Merlin's office.   
  
Merlin looks up from his work (or instagram, maybe) and stares at her.   
  
"Huh?" he says.   
  
"Gwaine. He came back early."  
  
Merlin turns the computer screen so she can see what he's looking at and shrugs.   
  
"I know," he says.   
  
"Good for Arthur, getting the twat back."  
  
"It wasn't that bad, Morgana. In fact it wasn't bad at all."  
  
"To mock Arthur for pining, for missing him to the point of exhaustion?"  
  
"That's not quite what happened. Arthur just worked a bit too hard. Anyway, it seems like Gwaine's making an effort."  
  
"Hmph."  
  
"I'm still worried, I'm still not happy with Gwaine for this, but he is putting the effort in. Let's see what happens next, okay?"  
  
"Fine. I suppose you're right. He is being oddly sweet to Arthur. We'll see, then. But I don't want him jetting off a lot. I don't want him hurting Arthur."  
  
"No, neither do I. We'll just keep an eye on them, okay? Nothing more."  
  
"Agreed."

 

* * *

 

Gwaine looks up from tying his laces when Arthur comes thundering down the hall in his socks, slipping and sliding across the floor, coming to rest with a hand on Gwaine's back, panting, grinning widely.

 

"Wow, that was an entrance and a half," Gwaine says, straightening, "good morning. I thought you were sleeping in, but here you are, boxers and all. And socks."

 

"Yes yes, I know. Now, how long are you gone this time?"

 

"Already told you- contract's four weeks, then we'll see. I promise not to be longer than-"

 

"No, no, take your time. Seriously. I'm gonna have parties every night and sleep with a different guy every hour to fill it all up."

 

"Oh, really?"

 

"Uh-huh. You'll be stuck out there, in Mexico, teaching little snot nosed kids to sing baa baa black sheep or whatever it is you teach them, and I'll be here. On my own. I'll go out, find some nice man, maybe two. I'll do all those things with my tongue that you like."

 

"Okay. Ring and tell me about it, so I can wank."

 

"Hey! You're supposed to be jealous!"

 

"You're just not selling it."

 

Arthur pouts, but then he bites his lip and looks at the floor, and Gwaine knows why he's up, why he's here. He tugs Arthur into a hug.

 

"I'll miss you too, you lunatic," Gwaine admits, "and I really won't stay longer than I can help."

 

"You could stay here, with me. If you wanted to."

 

"I could. Do you want me to?"

 

"Yes," Arthur says, stubborn, pulling back to pout at Gwaine, then he sighs and squishes Gwaine's cheeks with both palms, leaning forward to kiss him, "no. Go, adventure, take lots of pictures and meet amazing people. Then come tell me about it."

 

"I'll have to clear up from all your parties and gratuitous sex. I warn you, I might have to beat up all those boys you're planning on doing nasty things to."

 

"Kay, I'll warn all the boys."

 

"Go back to bed, Arthur. I'll call you when I land, okay?"

 

"Ugh. Sorry. I woke up and the bed was empty and I just... wanted to see you."

 

"Shite Arthur, I find it hard, too. You know all this, though.”

 

"I do. Anyway, you have to go, I think the taxi's outside to take you to the airport."

 

"I said I'd hitch!"

 

A horn goes out the front and Arthur smiles, shrugging.

 

"I ordered it. Now, you don't want to be late. I'll fly out, sometime, and you can show off your local knowledge and new collection of swear words."

 

"Do so."

 

"Right. Toodle pip and all that."

 

Arthur tugs away, before Gwaine can claim another kiss, and skitters back to his bedroom in the same haphazard manner he came- socks sliding, throwing himself into it. Gwaine wonders if he has time to give chase, but then the horn goes again so he shoulders his backpack and heads out.

When he flies back into Gatwick, six weeks later, he calls Arthur from the airport to let him know then heads out the front to get a taxi. He heads to the one at the top of the line, but notices it’s occupied so is about to turn, when the door pops open.

 

“Get in,” says a mysterious voice from inside.

 

Gwaine gets, smiling, ready to introduce himself and thank whoever it is for the share, but it’s Arthur, grinning at him, so Gwaine kind of throws himself at him.

 

“Arthur!”

 

“Hello. Wow, you missed me,” Arthur says, sounding smug and pleased.

 

“I did. What have you done to your hair? It’s all gone!”

 

“I got it cut, you know, like normal people?”

 

Arthur tugs at Gwaine’s ponytail, laughing.

 

“My hair is l'oreal, and I’m worth it, so there.”

 

“Who told you that?”

 

“Dunno, someone. Sometime. Probably after sex. How were your parties and pool boys?” Gwaine asks.

 

“Crazy. The flat is a total mess, it’s like you’ve been there for a week or something- stuff everywhere. You know, condoms, lube, funny stains.”

 

“You’re a funny guy.”

 

“There is a funny stain,” Arthur protests, then leans closer, breath tickling Gwaine’s ear, “it comes from ice cream. Dripping, dripping over a tanned, muscled stomach, where my tongue couldn’t reach the last, slow, drips.”

 

“Who’s stomach?”

 

“Lance’s,” Arthur says, sitting up, “he dropped ice cream all over the couch, the toddler. Oh, we dug out the paddling pool at his and put it up, so that’s news.”

 

“The big one? The one you spent ridiculous money on?”

 

“It’s great. We filled it right up, the water came over my shoulders. It’s sloshed out a bit, now, of course. It only reaches my nipples. Hey, take a left here or you’ll be going miles around. I already paid you extra, you berk,” Arthur says, leaning forward to berate the driver.

 

It disintegrates into an argument, but they go the shortest way in the end which seems to make Arthur happy, though it makes their driver very bad tempered and he drives away without giving Arthur his change.

 

“Hey!” Arthur says, standing on the pavement, glaring after it.

 

“Come on, it was all of fifty pee,” Gwaine says.

 

“I was going to give him a fiver,” Arthur says, “we had to wait a bit and he missed a potential fair. Which I already tipped him for, but still. Well, no skin off my nose if he wants forty eight pee instead of five quid.”

 

With that Arthur heaves Gwaine’s bag, left on the pavement, onto his shoulder and leads Gwaine up the steps. Inside, while Gwaine is taking off his shoes, Arthur goes through to the living room. Gwaine hears him go through the connecting door to the kitchen, then he comes of the dining room door.

 

“Huh,” Arthur says, grinning, “the cleaner’s been. She must have nicked all those condoms, too. There’s nothing here. No signs of my exploits.”

 

“What a shame,” Gwaine says.

 

He can’t help the yawn that breaks out. He’s glad to be back, and he’s glad to see Arthur, and he really wants to make Arthur all the Mexican food he learnt about, to tell him about it all, but he’s so tired.

 

“Go, nap,” Arthur says, reading his mind, “find me when you’re more awake. I’ll be in the office, I’m going to get some work done.”

 

“I could keep you company.”

 

Arthur bites his lip, then nods abruptly and kicks off his shoes. Gwiane follows him through to the kitchen and into the office, still as big and open as Gwaine remembers, still with a lovely sofa. He yawns again and sits while Arthur putters around, plugging in his laptop and sorting files, pulling down a book from the shelf, unlocking the filing system and flicking through for something. Gwaine watches it all, eyes growing heavy, and then yawns again. Arthur hears and turns, and comes over, crouching.

 

“Lie down, you numpty. Nap.”

 

“I was keeping you company,” Gwiane protests, already lying down.

 

“You are. Just, kind of dozy company. Are you warm enough? I have a blanket.”

 

“Would be nice. England’s not warm anymore.”

 

Arthur gets up and soon Gwaine is enveloped in blanket. His eyes get even heavier. The last thing he sees, before dozing off, is Arthur sitting at his desk and popping open his glasses case, opening a draw, shuffling papers. He dreams about Arthur, about the air conditioned hotel room Arthur rented in Mexico when he visited, about water. And then he dreams about nothing, falling deeper and deeper.

 

On the Friday after he returns, Arthur throws Gwaine a welcome back party. Or, he invites people over for dinner and then sticks the welcome back label on it. Gwaine’s relegated to setting the table after his enchiladas fiasco of the night before, which makes him sulky. It’s not his fault his set off the smoke alarm and burnt everything. It really isn’t his fault. It’s Arthur’s super duper oven’s fault. Nothing cooks as fast anywhere as it does in Arthur’s super duper oven.

 

“Are you still saying ‘super duper oven’ to yourself, over and over?” Arthur asks, from the kitchen.

 

“No,” Gwaine says.

 

“Stop sitting there sulking and put the stuff out, would you? They’ll be here soon.”

 

Arthur doesn’t sound mad, so Gwaine takes his time laying out the plates and cutlery and glasses that Arthur’s left at the top of the table for him. Arthur comes and goes, putting things in the centre, pausing each time to nudge Gwaine, usually to kiss him, which makes Gwaine forgive him.

 

“Crap, I forgot to buy that juice Merlin likes,” Arthur says, crouching to look in a cupboard and pulling out a bottle of wine.

 

“Why do you have wine under your sink?”

 

“It’s… never mind.”

 

Gwaine sits again, picking up the glass by his place and playing with the stem, wetting his finger to make it sing.

 

“Don’t, Gwaine, that’s annoying. Sit still, can’t you?”

 

“I’m not a child, Arthur. Set the table, don’t mess around, sit still. Christ, if I wanted this I’d go to my mother’s.”

 

“You should, she misses you.”

 

“Nag nag.”

 

Arthur turns, face wrinkled in consternation, mouth open to protest Gwaine’s temper, but the door bell goes before he can.

 

“I don’t know what’s got you in this funk, but I hope you’ll behave better for our guests,” Arthur says, then winces, “I do sound like your mother, don’t I?”

 

Gwaine doesn’t answer. He puts the glass down, then picks it up and goes to open the bottle of wine, pouring himself a generous quantity. He isn’t sure where his ‘funk’ has come from, mere minutes ago he was all for being playful. He frowns at the sounds in the hallway.

 

“…and then I just- Arthur, is that a new- right, right, shoes. I’m taking them off! Honestly, such a mother hen.”

 

“I am not your mother, shut up.”

 

“Both of you shut up. Is that fine specimen of manhood here?”

 

Oh yes, that’s what’s induced his funk- Merlin and Morgana. Who hate him. He scowls at Morgana’s imperious, sarcastic tone. He is a fine specimen of manhood. He takes a big gulp of wine and then they’re here, issuing through the door, Merlin tripping over himself, twisting back to talk to Arthur, Morgana stalking along behind him, Arthur bringing up the rear.

 

“…I told her she should just get in line like the rest of us, and she was furious! I don’t mean like furious as in I’d just been a bit of a pain, furious as in I killed her mother or something. Spit was flying, oh!”

 

Merlin’s cut off, his stream of words stopping abruptly, when he walks into one of the three wooden supports that split the kitchen and dining areas. They’ve been there as long as Arthur’s lived here, which is years, and Merlin’s visited thousands of times. And this isn’t the first time he’s done that.

 

“You’re meant to go round obstacles, Merlin,” Arthur says, moving Merlin aside by his shoulders and coming to join Gwaine in the kitchen, “do either of you want wine?”

 

“Do you have Welches?” Merlin asks, eager and expectant.

 

Arthur makes a face at Gwaine which means ‘told you’, as if it’s Gwaine’s fault Arthur forgot to buy the stupid juice.

 

“No, I don’t. Sorry. I have… apple juice, some fruity, tropical juice… thing. I dunno, it has mangos on the front. I have cordial, I have-“

 

“No Welches?” Merlin asks, looking bereft.

 

“Merlin, your window for having a drink brought to you is closing.”

 

“Elderflower cordial?” Merlin says, sadly.

 

“Yes, I have- Morgana, what about you?”

 

“Wine,” Morgana says, imperious, holding out a glass from the table. Arthur turns, making a gesture for the glass, so Gwaine goes to fetch it, leaving his own on the side.

 

“Evening,” he says.

 

“Oh, hello,” Morgana says.

 

“Gwaine!” Merlin says, getting out of the chair he’s in and hugging Gwaine, “you’re home!”

 

“Yeah, hi.”

 

“Great! Fantastic!”

 

Over the top, too bright, too much. Gwaine used to be friends with Merlin, before he started sleeping with Arthur. Gwaine nods and retreats to the kitchen, pouring Morgana a glass of wine and taking it back over for her.

 

“It’s red,” she says, looking at it in distain.

 

Gwaine shrugs and gulps it down himself.

 

“Gwaine…” Arthur says, then sighs deeply, “never mind. Lance is bringing the wine, Morgana, I only have red at the moment. Do you want some, or should I have Gwaine drink the entire bottle? I’m sure he will.”

 

The last is said with a glare, a ‘don’t you dare drink the whole bottle and get pissed and leave me alone to deal with these two harpies’. Or, maybe just ‘don’t you dare drink the whole bottle’. The rest is probably Gwaine projecting. He shrugs again, feeling his bad temper grow, and goes to get his own glass and drink that, too.

 

“Can you open the doors, Gwaine?” Arthur asks, coming back through to the kitchen, “it’s hot.”

 

Gwaine goes to do so, but they’re locked. He’s about to get the key from Arthur, but Arthur’s already there, unlocking them, very close.

 

“What’s your problem?” Arthur hisses in his ear, so Merlin and Morgana can’t hear.

 

“Nothing,” Gwaine says, flinging open the doors too hard. He winces as one hits the wall, but it doesn’t break. Arthur gives him a little push into one of the chairs on the balcony, puts his wine in his hand, then crouches.

 

“Stay here,” Arthur says, “until you cool off.”

 

Gwaine’s left, like a naughty two year old, watching the evening cool off and close in. It’s not all bad, it’s a nice evening and it’s warm, still. But he can hear the other three laughing inside and he simmers, glowering. Then the doorbell goes and Lance arrives with wine, and after that everyone else trickles in, too, and Gwaine’s still left on the balcony, forgotten about.

 

“Where’s Gwaine?” Gwaine hears Percy asks, later.

 

“He’s sat outside, enjoying the evening,” Arthur says, “He’ll be in in a bit.”

 

Gwaine scowls. He is _not_ enjoying the evening, not at all. He’s about to go tell Arthur just that, but then Percy joins him, sitting beside him, pulling him into a hug and leaning round him to top up his glass.

 

“I sneaked a bottle out,” Percy says, grinning.

 

“Good for you,” Gwaine snipes.

 

"Oh. You're pissed. Why?"

 

“I’m not pissed! I’ve had one and a half glasses of wine, that’s it.”

 

“As in short tempered, and wow, very short tempered.”

 

“Yes, well. I’m a ‘fine specimen of manhood’ or something.”

 

“What are you on about?”

 

“Those two! In there. They hate me.”

 

“Which two? There are a lot of people in there, Gwaine.”

 

Gwaine looks behind them, and sure enough the kitchen has filled up a bit since he left.

 

“Morgana and Merlin,” Gwaine says, the anger leaving him. He sighs and takes a sip of wine, then gets to his feet, “come on, I have to go apologise to Arthur. And maybe Morgana.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I behaved like an arse to Arthur, and I drank Morgana’s wine.”

 

Percy follows him back inside and people cheer, so at least some people are pleased to see him. He says hello to Gwen and Lance, to Elyan and Mithian, then finds himself faced with Morgana.

 

“Um, sorry. About drinking your wine. Bad moment,” Gwaine says, feeling a bit awkward.

 

“That’s okay,” Morgana says, making it sound anything but, holding up her glass, “I got white, eventually.”

 

“Um, good. Great. It’s, uh, good to see you.”

 

“Yes,” Morgana says, then turns back to her conversation with Mithian.

 

Mithian gives him a sympathetic look but doesn’t include him, so he looks around for Arthur and Merlin. Merlin’s at the table, arguing with his cross little friend, Will, but Arthur’s nowhere. Gwaine out, down the hall, assuming Arthur’s in the bathroom. Their bedroom door is bit, which is sure to be taken as invitation to snoop by Morgana, so Gwaine goes to either close it or make sure there’s nothing incriminating there, and sees Arthur, sat on the bed.

 

Gwaine pushes open the door. Arthur’s got his trousers off, he’s sat in his shirt and boxers, a clean pair of navy chinos in one hand. He seems to have stalled somewhere between getting them out and putting them on. He looks up at Gwaine when he pushes open the door.

 

“Hey,” Gwaine says.

 

“Oh, hullo,” Arthur says.

 

“Sorry for earlier,” Gwaine says, “Dunno what happened. Maybe the heat.”

 

“What? Oh, I sent you to sit on the naughty step, didn’t I?”

 

“Yeah, you did. Are you okay?”

 

Arthur looks blankly at him for a moment, then looks down at his clean trousers without answering.

 

“Why are you changing?” Gwaine asks, trying again.

 

“Oh, Morgana got some wine on me. I think it was accidental. I can never tell, with her, though, so maybe it was in revenge for something. Dunno. I was sticky.”

 

“Well, are you going to put those on and come out, or are we going to have random, marvellous sex and leave our guests to fend for themselves?”

 

Arthur gives him the blank look again, then shakes whatever it is off and gets to his feet to tug on the trousers. He fumbles with the buttons for a minute, then growls in frustration so Gwaine goes to help.

 

“Hey, hey,” Gwaine says, “it’s okay. You’re just frustrated. Though, why you’re frustrated I have no idea.”

 

“Morgana. Going on and on and on about- ugh.”

 

“Right.”

 

Gwaine knows what ‘ugh’ means; it means she was badgering Arthur about him again. Gwaine pats Arthur’s stomach.

 

“You’re all set.”

 

“Hate that, you helping.”

 

“Yeah, it’s happened, what, twice?”

 

Arthur shrugs, bottom lip pouting. Gwaine laughs, leaning forward to kiss him, biting the pouty lip. He finds, with gentle fingers, the scar across Arthur’s scalp, under his hair, then moving on, down, to his neck and holding him steady. They pause, foreheads together, breathing. But then someone comes clumping up the stairs, laughing, and they freeze. When the bathroom door shuts they pull apart, laughing, and go back out.

 

Gwaine doesn’t mind Morgana, he never really got on with her. They rubbed along alright but there was always a serious edge to their jibes and banter, an actual dislike on both sides. They usually just avoided one another, until Arthur. He does, however, mind Merlin. Who used to be so open, so amused by Gwaine’s antics, so friendly. Now when Gwaine goes to sit at the table, next to him, Merlin stops talking and watches him for a few moments before starting an inane conversation about boots.

 

“I got some really nice ones last winter,” Gwaine says, “to take with me to Russia.”

 

“When are you jetting off again?” Merlin asks, a harsh undertone to his voice.

 

“Um, not for a while,” Gwaine says, and gets up.

 

He tries to talk to a few people, but Morgana’s with them and she makes a snide remark that hits a bit close to home, so he goes to sit in the livingroom. Merlin finds him there and sits beside him on the sofa.

 

“I upset you, earlier,” Merlin says.

 

“A little.”

 

“Sorry. I just don’t know why you… either date him or don’t, this whole thing is… none of my business. I know. He finds it hard when you’re gone, though. We’re just protective of him.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“You sound extra convinced. You didn’t see him, after. I mean… I dunno. I wish you’d, like… or get out of his life. Out of our hair. So he can move on, you know?”

 

Gwaine nods, though really he has no idea. He’s drunk a little too much and he can feel tears pricking at his eyes. He bites them back and half listens to Merlin ramble about cows for a bit. Arthur comes and finds them, a bottle of water in hand, frowns at Gwaine and does an abrupt one eighty turn.

 

“What was that about?” Merlin asks, laughing.

 

“No idea.”

 

Fifteen minutes later Arthur comes back and slumps next to Gwaine. Morgana comes in almost on his heels and frowns, lips tight.

 

“Why’d you send everyone home, Arthur?” she asks.

 

“You sent everyone home?” Gwaine asks.

 

“I don’t feel well. I want to lie down,” Arthur says, short and sharp, “could you two please go as well? I need to rest. I feel wobbly tonight.”

 

Gwaine frowns. Arthur isn’t wobbly. Except for the buttons. He hasn’t had any dreams, hasn’t struggled with co-ordination, or sleeping, hasn’t walked into any walls.

 

“Will you be okay on your own?” Merlin asks, worried.

 

“Gwaine will be here,” Arthur says.

 

Merlin looks like he wants to say something else, but Morgana gets there first.

 

“As Merlin said, will you be okay on your own, or effectively on your own?” she says.

 

“Go away, harpy. Take Merlin away too. I’m tired, I want… I w-w-w… I.. need a nap,” Arthur says, struggling with the words.

 

Merlin gets up and tugs Morgana’s arm, leading her away, whispering fiercely. Gwaine waits for the door to shut before turning to Arthur.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks, “I’ve only heard you stutter once before and that was when you were exhausted.”

 

“I’m fine. I was getting rid of them. You looked like you were about to throw up, or burst into tears. I told Merlin about the humiliating button incident earlier, so I thought this was the easiest way to go.”

 

“They’ll be worried about you for _weeks_.”

 

“What’s the matter? Why do you look like your beloved pet just died a traumatic death? Like, path of a lorry or something.”

 

“It’s nothing. Just, Merlin wishing me away,” Gwaine says, and sighs, throat tightening again, “wishing me out of existence, you know. Like I’m not here. I thought he was my friend, but he thinks so little of me.”

 

Gwaine feels the tears threaten again. He brushes the dampness away, but then Arthur pulls him into an awkward half hug, threading their fingers together, and holds his arm. Gwaine shuts his eyes and leans into Arthur’s solid warmth.

 

“You should probably cry now, Gwaine, or I’ll feel foolish doing this. And then I’ll let go.”

 

Gwaine laughs, but then chokes on it and feels the tears dribble out. Crying is painful, like water being dragged from him. He just sits there, staring ahead, holding onto Arthur’s hand and himself and shuddering out tears.

 

 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, after a while, “I don’t know how to make them see. They think it’s me who doesn’t, but it’s them. God, Gwaine. Don’t listen, don’t wish yourself away. You’re a good man, ignore them. They’re stupid.”

 

“I know. I don’t mind, don’t mind the words or Morgana.”

 

“Merlin.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He’ll come round. He’s just worrying. I had a really hard time with a boyfriend a few years ago, someone who put me down for the things I like to do, like feeling soft things and how I get lost in sensation. And the dreams. I didn’t realise, because he treated me like my father did. So Merlin worries.”

 

“But he knows me.”

 

“And he knows me, he knows perfectly well I can take care of myself. I left the guy before it got out of hand, of my own volition. I’ve known Merlin for a very, very long time. If he dated you I would be worried, too. Not because I think badly of you, but because I’m always going to think he deserves better.”

 

“Is that it? You deserve better than me?”

 

“Merlin sees you leaving me, sees me missing you, sees you flirting, sees you moody, see you laughing at me. He doesn’t see this, doesn’t see you when I dream, doesn’t see you daring me to follow you round the world into adventures, to see new places. He doesn’t see you making it easy for me to talk, to ask you to button my flies. He doesn’t see us, Gwaine. He just sees you, and me.”

 

“Maybe you do deserve better.”

 

“Everyone deserves better. You know what Hunith told me after Merlin and I had a fight and I thought he deserved a better friend?”

 

“What?”

 

“Everyone deserves better. There is no perfect person out there and everyone makes mistakes, and Merlin shouldn’t have to deal with the fall out of that. But everyone makes mistakes, whoever they are, there are always going to be moments when you deserve better from someone, when they deserve better from you. Growing up is about recognising those moments, apologising for them, working out the things that upset you.”

 

“It’s nice.”

 

“It is. There’s more. Sometimes, you meet someone. Both of you deserve better, you fight, you tear at one another, but somehow you find the spaces between. You find that standing with them is as safe, as easy as standing alone. You find that your thoughts and feelings are open to them. You find that you and they are entwined, like two sides of a coin. That’s you and Merlin.”

 

“Yeah, I see that. I guess he’s just like a brother, really.”

 

“Nah. He’s a best mate. A very good friend, probably the best friend. But, that’s us, too. Me and you. Somewhere I found those between-spaces, with you.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Have you not found them?”

 

“I dunno. I love you, I know that.”

 

“That’s… you do?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“I think that, yes, I have found it with you. I think, if I understand it.”

 

“Good. Merlin hasn’t noticed, yet, but he will. Just give him time.”

 

“And Morgana?”

 

“Will hate you till the stars turn cold, but will accept you if she thinks you’re good for me. Merlin will convince her.”

 

“You have it all planned. What’s next; world domination?”

 

“Just Gwaine-domination. Come on, I have wanted to have sex with you all evening. If you’re done with the melt-down, I’d like to get you face down on the bed, entirely naked, so I can do all sorts of things to your lovely bum.”

 

“Well, I suppose if you really want to.”

 

“Yes. Get up, go.”

 

Gwaine goes.

 

* * *

 

 

Merlin rings Arthur about a week after Gwaine’s ‘welcome home’ party, because he’s been strangely absent from Merlin’s radar since then.

 

“’Lo?” Artur says, sounding half asleep.

 

“It’s half past twelve!” Merlin says, “are you still asleep?”

 

“I’m working nights at the moment. What’s up?”

 

“Oh. Right, sorry. Just wanted to meet up some time. Anything next week good for you?”

 

“Um… Gwaine’s sick. I don’t think he’ll want to do much? He’s… hang on.”

 

Merlin listens to muffled sounds, irritated.

 

“Arthur, Arthur!” he say, trying to get his attention.

 

“Yeah yeah, I’m still here. Gwaine says he might be up for something later in the week.”

 

“Can’t you do anything without him?”

 

“Huh? Oh. Didn’t think of that. I guess? I’m on nights till Monday so not till at least Wednesday. Can I call you back or something? I’m knackered.”

 

“Sure. Let me know what you plan.”

 

“Kay.”

 

Arthur hangs up, leaving Merlin to say good bye to the dial tone.

 

He doesn’t see Arthur until Thursday, when Arthur finally calls and invites him to come over after work. Merlin’s running early, for once, and gets there before Arthur’s due home, but he knocks anyway and the door’s answered by a pale faced, red nosed Gwaine, swimming in a hoody and wearing the woolly socks Merlin recognises as the ones his Mum knitted for Arthur when Arthur was living in a shit hole with no heating. Merlin stares at Gwaine’s feet.

 

“Hi,” Gwaine says, “you’re early. Call the presses! Come in, I’m just schlepping on the sofa in the livingroom, I was about to make… hot chocolate. Something warm.”

 

“It’s not cold,” Merlin says, still distracted by the socks.

 

“I’m cold. I’m sick.”

 

Gwaine backs that up by turning away to cough disgustingly into his shoulder. Merlin bustles into the hallway, feeling awkward as the coughing goes on a bit. He kicks his shoes off and waits.

 

“Sorry,” Gwaine says, “drink?”

 

“I’ll make you lemon and honey,” Merlin says, surprising them both by the almost-warmth in his voice.

 

“I will love you forever if you do that,” Gwaine says, “my throat is killing me and Arthur only knows how to make that Lemsip crap. He refuses to even try lemon and honey.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Merlin says, chivvying Gwaine into the livingroom and back to the sofa which is messy with duvet, tissues, remote, packet of lozenges and other detritus, “he had a bit of a… mishap.”

 

“Mm,” Gwaine says, slumping into the mess, “he told me. Couldn’t work out what to put in and accidentally made it ‘rather awful’ by adding a lot of the hot sauce that was sitting out with the lemons.”

 

“He told you that?” Merlin says, tucking Gwaine’s feet in, surprised that Arthur said anything about any of the time where he was struggling to make sense of things.

 

“Also told me about not being able to work out how to get into the honey and breaking the jar to get some out.”

 

“Jesus, I’d forgotten that bit,” Merlin says, standing up, remembering.

 

Uther had been absolutely livid when he found the pieces of the jar on the counter top, honey dripping onto the floor. He’d held Arthur by the nape of the neck and pushed his face really close, and Arthur had cried and cried because he had no idea what he’d done wrong. He couldn’t see another way to get the honey out of the jar, he’d just assumed that was what one did.

 

“It was one of the…” Merlin looks for the right words.

 

“Uther was a total bastard. Yes,” Gwaine says.

 

Merlin goes to make the lemon and honey. He hasn’t heard Arthur talk about any of that stuff, not for years. Very, very occasionally Arthur will call him after a particularly bad dream that he struggles to throw, but even that hasn’t happened since Gwaine. Does Arthur go to Gwaine for that? Merlin almost boils the kettle dry thinking, and by the time he takes the mug through Gwaine’s fallen asleep. Merlin leaves the cup on the table and watches ER, which Gwaine has playing.

 

Arthur comes back about twenty minutes later, wandering into the livingroom yawning, eyes going right to Gwaine. Merlin watches, so far unnoticed, as Arthur’s face softens from slightly tired, professional to something else. He moves over to the sofa and pushes Gwaine’s hair off his forehead, sighing.

 

“Still feverish. I am so taking you to the doctor tomorrow,” Arthur mutters.

 

Gwaine grunts, drawing more attention from Merlin, and Merlin watches as Arthur crouches, hand resting on Gwaine’s side.

 

“Hello,” Arthur says, sounding delighted.

 

“Wha’?” Gwaine croaks, “where’s my lemon ‘n honey?”

 

“I don’t make that crap. I can get you lemsip, or hot chocolate?”

 

“Arthur?” Gwaine says.

 

“Yes. Who did you think it was?”

 

“Merlin. He made me…”

 

Gwaine looks around, spots Merlin, spots the mug and lights up, sitting and grabbing it, inhaling the scent and humming in appreciating then sneezing into it. Arthur turns and sees Merlin, and makes the strangest face. Almost like the time Merlin walked in on him having a wank, when they were thirteen.

 

“Merlin,” Arthur says.

 

“Hi,” Merlin says.

 

A slow smile creeps over half of Arthur’s face, his lips quirking up.

 

“You made Gwaine lemon and honey,” Arthur says.

 

“Yes.”

 

The other half of Arthur’s face smiles and Arthur sits, suddenly, going limp and relaxed, beaming stupidly at Merlin.

 

“You like him again,” Arthur says.

 

“Still don’t like him dating you,” Merlin admits, rubbing his neck, “but… I can… give it a chance?”

 

Arthur lets out a breath and Gwaine suddenly scrambles off the sofa, plonking the cup haphazardly back onto the table and tugging Arthur into a half hug, pulling him until they’re very close. Merlin realises after a second that Arthur’s started to cry.

 

“Shit,” Merlin says, “I was that bad?”

 

“Yeah,” Gwiane says, “you were that bad. Hey, Arthur? Calm down a bit.”

 

Arthur gulps for breath, but the sobs keep coming. Gwaine starts to cough as well. Merlin stares at them both, sort of unable to move. Arthur pulls himself together a bit after a minute, and gets Gwaine back onto the sofa. He gets Gwaine’s drink and Merlin realises his hands are trembling a little.

 

“Sorry,” Arthur says, patting Gwaine’s shoulder clumsily, “sorry. I’m alright.”

 

He’s still crying, but he’s doing Arthur-crying now, where he just kind of leaks everywhere.

 

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, slightly awed, “You… you read him. Gwaine, you know… I’m sorry. I… should have known this about you. Right. I’m a total idiot! I know you, I knew you. What the hell did I think you were going to do? I know you always tell people what you expect up front. Why would Arthur be any different? And if he went into it for a one night stand, that’s… not making me happy to think about. But you’d have renegotiated. Of course. I’m an idiot!”

 

Arthur comes and sits beside him, perching on the arm of his chair, and pats his head. His hands aren’t trembling any more.

 

“You can make it right now,” Arthur says, sounding complacent, “make it all okay again. Can I come to yours sometimes again? I miss Gaius’s kitten.”

 

“She’s mostly cat these days, really. And of course you can come. Bring Gwaine, Gaius can be doctor. Are you off nights yet?”

 

“Mm. Till… three weeks, I think. Lance is going to go in, mostly, because he had that massive holiday with Morgana and Gwen and he got Christmas, too, so he has to make it up.”

 

“Anything come in while you were on?”

 

“Two teenagers. Said they were fourteen, got dumped in holding. They called our number, clever buggers. There are flyers all over, now, which is good. Anyway, I went down to get them re-assesed as children. Turned out they were twelve. Got them into the Carlings’ for emergency, then they’ll be moved to foster care, when there’s space in a group home. Not great, but better than… yeah.”

 

“Good stuff.”

 

“Merlin,” Gwaine says, butting in, “I love you. This is divine. Please, please teach Arthur to make it?”

 

Merlin opens his mouth to protest, but he catches sigh of Arthur. There’s a slight blush brushing his cheeks and he’s avoiding Merlin’s eyes.

 

“You want me to?” Merlin asks.

 

“Maybe,” Arthur says, “might be… might be nice.”

 

Merlin realises how long it’s been since he really looked at Arthur, really noticed anything. He’s been caught up at work, and with Morgana, and he’d forgotten to do this, to look, to read Arthur when he doesn’t say things.

 

“Okay,” Merlin says.

 

Arthur gets up and tugs Merlin into the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: angst ahead. Nothing specific, some vague mental health discussed, vague mentions of immigration issues and possible children being hurt hinted at. Minor character's grief mentioned. Brain injury talked about. Poetry used badly.

Gwaine wakes with a yawn, too hot. He shoves at Arthur but just the duvet falls off so he opens his eyes. And remembers he’s not at Arthur’s, he’s in Spain. He sighs and stretches up to shove open his window wider and tugs the curtains to let in the light, then feels under his pillow for his phone and calls Arthur. It rings for ages before Arthur answers. 

“Hang on, Anwar, let me just get this call and I’ll be with you, okay? It’s good news, don’t look so glum! Hi Gwaine,” Arthur says, and Gwaine hears the click of a door closing, “sorry, I’m at work. Give me a sec to find the file I need?”

“Sure,” Gwaine croaks, voice rough with sleep, and closes his eyes to listen to Arthur yell for his secretary and then for Lance and then for Mordred, trying to find paper work. 

“Damn it Mord, why’d you file it under that?” Arthur says, sounding more confused than annoyed. 

“It’s alphabetical? It’s his sirname?” Gwiane hears, muffled. 

“Their sirname. Anwar is gender-neutral, or whatever you call it. They’re not male. Anyway. Have Lance go over the filing system would you?” 

There’s another click and then Arthur laughs. 

“You still there, Gee-gee?” Arthur asks, sounding loud and close again. 

“Mmhmm. Don’t call me that.”

“Bloody Mordred. Why would you file stuff alphabetically when we have this lovely system of case numbers, names from immigration and times into the country that’s SO much easier?” 

“Who on earth devised such a hellish scheme of filing as that?”

“Who do you think? Lance. Most of us are so used to it now that we can’t be bothered to change it. Anyway, you just call because you woke up?”

“Yeah. Good morning. Do you have to go be busy and important?”

“Kind of. We’ve been trying to track down Anwar’s mother and finally found her in a holding centre. She’s been there nearly a year, for christ’s sake, and they got her name wrong so it was almost impossible to find her. Anwar’s only sixteen, their Mum was supposed to meet them and when she didn’t turn up they- anyway. I should go give them good news.”

“Congrats on remembering pronouns there.”

“I’ve been practising. Been working on this case almost a month and dealing with Anwar’s social workers and teachers to try and get them on-side, you know? Anyway. Call me tonight to tell me about how it is out there, I’m in the office till midnight so I’ll be up whenever you get in.”

“Okay. Are you still planning on flying out here Friday?”

“You miss me? Yeah, unless something comes up. Same as always. It’s only been three weeks!”

“When did I become the clingy one?” Gwaine grumbles. 

“I’ll let you off. We’ve been disgustingly busy so I’ve no time to miss you. Also, I may have knicked your pillow from the flat. When did you last do laundry, you bum? It stinks of you.”

“I don’t usually bother to wash pillow cases,” Gwaine admits, “well, maybe once every couple of months.”

“You’re disgusting. Remind me of that when you get back so I can start bringing my own linen, yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Right. I do have to go, really. Call me later?”

“Will do. Hey, Arthur?”

“Yeah?”

“I…” Gwaine starts, but then it dies in his mouth and he swallows loudly, “I’ll call later.”

“Cool. Bye.”

Arthur hangs up, already calling his secretary to let Anwar into the office. Gwaine sighs and heaves himself out of bed, staggering to the bathroom for a shower, running into Elena in the hall. She hugs him and moans about coffee in Russian, then drags him into the bathroom. 

“I’m not showering with you,” Gwaine says, “Arthur wouldn’t approve.”

“And you would? You’re showering, I’m doing my teeth. I know for a fact you have no shame about your bits, so come on, strip.”

“You should have stayed in Russia with your oligarch-father and never come to annoy me here,” Gwiane says, but he does shrug out of his pyjama bottoms and turns on the shower. 

“I had no idea you were teaching here. Besides, I got here first.”

“True.”

Gwaine’s actually glad Elena’s teaching here this summer. He’s missing Arthur a ridiculous amount and doesn’t really know what to make of it. The thing with Arthur had been great- fun and honest, and there had been fondness and affection, and he’d enjoyed it all. But then, over the Christmas period, something had shifted. Gwaine doesn’t know if it was when Arthur invited Percy to stay with them for as much of the holiday as he liked, because he ‘needed help putting up with Gwaine’s ridiculous Christmas cheer’.

Gwaine thinks of Percy, half asleep, sleep-crusted eyes pink from exhaustion and tears, staggering into the kitchen the first morning he had stayed over and telling Arthur his plans for leaving a week later. Arthur had refused to let him, waving his spoon about with such ferocity that he hit Gwaine with it, and told Percy that he was going to hang Gwaine from the banisters or lock him in his own flat if Percy didn’t stay for at least three weeks to temper the enthusiasm. 

Arthur had then made Percy breakfast and sat on the sofa in the livingroom with him watching sports and nattering softly until Percy had fallen into a light sleep. Arthur had been like that all four weeks Percy had stayed- made him comfortable, helped him rest, let him grieve and given him space. Gwaine’s never been able to help Percy at Christmas and he’d been so grateful that Arthur had somehow known how to help even a little. 

Or maybe it had changed the morning Gwaine woke up alone in his bed when he’d gone to sleep with Arthur plastered over his back, and found Arthur sitting in the tiny kitchen area, on the floor, head cradled against his knees. Gwaine had thought he’d fallen or broken something, but Arthur just stared at him for a bit while he talked, then he’d tipped forward to lean into Gwaine. 

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Arthur had said. 

“Bother me with what?”

“Had a thing. Seizure. Happens sometimes. Not one like on TV, just kind of am unresponsive a bit. When I got out of it I was confused.”

“Shit.”

“I had a traumatic brain injury. I’m never gonna be entirely… I’ll always be…”

Gwaine had known, theoretically, that that was true. But somehow finding Arthur on the kitchen floor half out of it had made it more real. The things he’d thought of as Arthur’s ‘quirks’ had become symptoms in his mind and he’d freaked out for almost a week before realising it was just his perception and understanding that had changed, not Arthur. Arthur had just let him work himself out and then let him apologise, and then he’d told Gwaine about more of it. 

Or maybe it had been Merlin beginning to properly trust him, or maybe it had been Arthur coming to Gwaine one day after work and just sitting there while he tidied his classroom and did some marking, or the time Arthur did Gwaine’s shopping, or the note he left with a scribbled smiley face with giant teeth the day Gwaine finally rang him Mam and listened to her lecture and herang him for almost an hour. 

Something had changed, anyway, and now Gwaine knows that he loves Arthur. 

He’s never been in love before, never really loved anyone in that sense, just his friends and family. He’s been fond of people and he’s fallen in lust, and he’s both fond and in lust with Arthur, which is familiar and comfortable. But the love thing is new. It aches and roars, like he’s just singing with all of his body, his heart beating Arthur’s name, his mind connecting everything to the Arthur-central bit where all his memories and feelings for the prat live. Everything is connected to Arthur now, and Gwaine wants to say it, to shout it, to tell everyone but most of all to just tell Arthur. 

“I love you,” he whispers to himself, throughout the day, whenever he’s alone. 

Practising. Rolling the sounds around his mouth. He tries it out in different tones and in different ways. 

“Oh, by the way? I love you.”

“Might love you a tad, you know.”

“Love ya, bye!”

“Love you, you twat.”

“Arthur, my love my dove, my only, my heart. I love you so much I might just burst.”

One of the other teachers walks into the staff room for the last and laughs himself silly, almost wetting himself, before giving Gwaine a torrent of advice, in Spanish, about properly expressive ‘the passion’. He also digs a book of Lorca out of hi bag and hands it over, nodding seriously. Gwaine accepts the book and the advice. 

Arthur answers on the first ring, sounded frustrated and tired. Gwaine goes through the usual exchange of greetings and teasing, book open across his knee, trying to screw up his courage. He’s just about to get to it when Arthur curses and hangs up. Gwaine gapes at his mobile, then shakes himself and waits for Arthur to call back, assuming he got a call to do with work. Arthur calls back half an hour later. 

“Hi,” Gwaine says, “everything sorted?”

“What?”

“I thought you’d got a call to deal with.”

“Oh. No, just some fucker trying to break down the office door. Managed to break the glass, set off the alarm and get himself arrested. Security dealt with him, but he was trying to get up here. Apparently he was some kind of support staff for the building, cleaning or something, and got let go, which he decided to blame on us because apparently we’ve been letting ‘all those bloody foreigners take the jobs in the building from nice respectful English blokes’.”

“Wow.”

“Dramatic, I know. He was off his knob, completely wankered on something, and the shit of it is that I felt sorry for the bugger. He has two kids, I’ve had conversations with him before when working late, he’s okay. A bit of a wanker about immigration, but from ignorance not malice. And now… well, anyway, I went and did… stuff. You know. Statements, shit like that.”

“You went and talked to the cops for him. Right? Offere to lawyer for him? That kind of ‘shit’?”

“Actually I made Mordred take his case. He’s studied criminal law, too, so it’s more up his street. I always focused on immigration.”

Gwaine lets out a huff of breath. Only Arthur would help some ignorant, xenophobic arsehole just because he’d had a couple of conversations and seen photos of his kids. 

“You take everyone there to be under your protection, don’t you?” Gwiane says. 

“God, stop teasing. I feel ridiculous enough already,” Arthur grumbles. 

“Este llanto de sangre que decora  
lira sin pulso ya, lúbrica tea,  
este peso del mar que me golpea,  
este alacrán que por mi pecho mora,

son guirnalda de amore, cama de herido,  
donde sin sueño, sueño tu presencia  
entre las ruinas di mi pecho hundido,” Gwaine says, blurting it out. 

“What?” Arthur says, “why are you blabbering at me in Spanish? Is that poetry? Are you high?”

“I’m not high!”

“’sangre’ is blood, but that’s all I recognised. Are you… threatening me? What?”

“No! It’s Lorca, you uncultured monoglot!”

“I speak a respectable amount of Latin, actually. And French.”

“You can say ‘will you sleep with me’ in French, and what use is Latin? It’s a dead language.”

“I can swear in French. And- oh go away.”

“It means… the lament of blood that decorates the lyre that pulses, something… lascivious, I think, or lustful? The weight of the sea.. hits or beats, on me. The scorpion that is in my chest, is the wreath of love, the bed of the wounded, where, dreamless (or maybe sleepless?), I dream of your presence, in the ruins of my sunken chest. Or breast.”

“Hang on,” Arthur says. 

There’s a brief interval of typing. 

“This light, this fire that devours,  
this gray landscape that surrounds me,  
this pain that comes from one idea,  
this anguish of the sky, the earth, the hour,

and this lament of blood that decorates  
a pulseless lyre, a lascivious torch,  
this burden of the sea that beats upon me,  
this scorpion that dwells within my breast

are all a wreath of love, bed of one wounded,  
where, sleepless, I dream of your presence  
amid the ruins of my fallen breast.

And though I seek the summit of discretion,  
your heart gives me a valley spread below  
with hemlock and passion of bitter wisdom,” Arthur says.

“Um… yeah. That’s about it. It’s… kind of…”

“Dark? Angsty? I reckon you should try using your own words, mate. Lorca’s awesome, but not exactly romantic. Unless you were trying to tell me that I wound you with… oh.”

“Yeah,” Gwaine says, scratching his cheek where there’s a beard growing, feeling sheepish.

“Love. It’s about… you love me?”

“Yeah. I kind of took some stupid advice from teacher.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean you to read that to me to try and… wow. You do?”

“Yeah.”

“Hang on.”

There’s more typing.

“Then shall our hearts pant thee; then shall our brain  
All her invention on thine Altar lay,  
And there in hymns send back thy fire again,” Arthur says, eventually. 

“What’s that, then?” Gwaine asks, smiling, “is it about me? My altar, huh?”

“Actually, it’s a Herbert poem about the sins of lust and the greatness of the immortal love of Christ and God. But, that little bit could be pretty romantic, no?” Arthur says. 

Gwaine laughs. 

“Only you would pick such a thing to be romantic. What the hell, Arthur? The sins of lust? I like that sin!”

“Yes, well, that’s why I only read a bit of it. I googled poems about love and that came up, so.”

“Let’s admit that we’re both useless at being romantic and that poetry is not our strong point, hmm?”

“Okay. Oh! I just remembered one. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.”

“That’s… actually… yeah.”

“That one is actually about love, too. Sonnet number something by Christina Rossetti. I had to learn it for school. A shit ton of Shakespeare would work, too.”

“Probably.”

“Gwaine?”

“Yeah?”

“I… yeah. I think maybe I love you, too. I do. I love you.”

Gwaine can’t think of anything to say, so he just grins and listens to Arthur grinning back. 

“Bugger,” Arthur mutters, and there’s more typing sounds, “Gwaine, sorry, I have to go. Work calls.”

“Alright.”

“Thanks. For calling, for Lorca, for saying it.”

“Yeah.”

“Bye, Gee Gee. I’ll see you Friday.”

**

Merlin watches Arthur and Gwaine make their way over from collecting baggage with some trepidation. He really does not want to share his news, not when Arthur looks so happy, so sun-warmed and bronzed, so healthy. Arthur waves an arm in the air, nearly hitting Gwaine, and dashes through the crowd to swing Merlin off his feet in a horribly tight hug. 

“Merls!” Arthur says, enthusiasm bleeding through to make it far too loud. 

“Get off you berk,” Merlin says, “I saw you on Friday. Let me hug the guy I haven’t seen for three months.”

 

Arthur lets him go and steps back, letting Merlin get a good look at Gwaine. Gwaine doesn’t look quite as healthy and happy as Arthur does, he’s thinner than when he left and while the sun’s turned him brown as a nut, it hasn’t made him glow the way it has Arthur. Merlin hugs him. 

“Alright?” he asks, tapping the back of Gwaine’s hair, “nice hair cut by the way.”

 

“Thanks. I’m good,” Gwaine says. 

 

“He’s missed me something awful!” Arthur says, sounding thrilled about it, “he called me nightly and every day when he woke up, and Skyped _all_ the time.”

 

“You’ve already told me that, Arthur,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes and smiling at Gwaine. 

 

“I did miss him,” Gwaine says, sounding a bit baffled by it, “I’m going to have to stick to the UK for a bit to get my Arthur-fix, it seems. I’m an addict.”

 

“That was soppy,” Arthur says, slapping Gwaine around the back of the head. 

 

Arthur bounds away, shouting about the car, shouldering Gwaine’s backpack and tugging along his own suitcase, which jumps about behind him in his bouncing wake. Gwaine shakes his head. 

 

“He insisted on eating a ‘shit ton’, as he says, of cholate at the airport, other end. He’s high on sugar,” Gwaine says. 

 

“Yup. As a kite,” Merlin agrees, watching as Arthur strikes up a conversation with one of the poor customer service workers, “shall we go rescue that poor girl?”

 

“Nah,” Gwaine says, “if we start for the car, Arthur will catch up. He’s like a puppy.”

Merlin laughs and they stroll off towards the door, shoulders brushing. 

 

“It’s good to see you, Green,” Merlin says, “but you look crap. Sure you’re okay?”

 

“I’m hunky dory. Just had to work some stuff out, you know?”

 

Merlin nods, though he doesn’t know. He’s overheard several conversations from Arthur’s end of the phone where Arthur sounds like he’s being soothing, and he’s heard Arthur talk quietly and gravely, listening intently, but Arthur hasn’t told him anything. 

 

Arthur catches them up at the doors and bounces along, more or less docile, at Gwaine’s side. 

 

“How’s Mam?” Gwaine asks. 

 

Merlin grins. He’s also heard Arthur talking to Gwaine’s mum, exchanges condolences about how awful Gwaine is and how annoying his restless feet are and generally just being a total gossip with her. 

 

“She’s good, actually. Your sister’s there at the moment with the kids, who say you have to visit and bring presents, and she’s been getting back into her volunteering, so she’s got loads of new friends. She says you are a reprobate and I should dump you, by the way,” Arthur says, grinning at Merlin over Gwaine’s head. 

 

“Will you take her advice?” Gwaine asks, amused, linking his arm with Arthur’s.

 

“May do. I have met so many lovely boys while you were gone, and had so much sex. Not sure that you’re really up to keeping up with all that.”

 

“Don’t believe a word of it,” Merlin says, “he’s been moping on my sofa and eating all the junk food in my house. He’s also been telling me, in disgusting detail, how horny he is because he can’t, and I quote, ‘get Gwaine’s cock stuck in me’.”

 

“Perhaps I’ve missed your cock a little,” Arthur admits. 

 

“Made up for its absence this weekend, didn’t I?” Gwaine says. 

 

“Oh gross!” Merlin says, covering his ears and jogging ahead a few steps, to Arthur’s amusement. 

 

Merlin takes them back to Arthur’s, even though Arthur wants to go to Gwaine’s to water the plants. He cooks pasta and pesto and gives Arthur copious amounts of cheese and serves them all ice cream with fudge chunks in it, then makes them sit in the livingroom on the sofa together. 

 

“Merlin!” Arthur snaps, slapping Gwaine’s hand off his knee, “If you don’t stop being a twat and tell me what the hell is wrong I will nail you to the wall with my nail gun.”

 

There’s enough murderous intent in Arthur’s eyes for Merlin to let go of his bitten lip and just blurt it out. 

 

“Morgana went a bit… mad. While you were away. We’ve all deserted her for Gwaine, no one’s on her side, we’ve betrayed her trust. You know the drill, what she’s been on for months. Gwen broke up with her on Friday, after Morgana had another go about Lancelot and then went over to his place and punched his lights out. Did you teach her how to do that, Arthur? She knocked him unconscious.”

Arthur stares up at Merlin, eyes big and tanned face paling a little. Merlin decides to carry on, just get it all out. 

 

“On Saturday she came over here, broke in and used your laptop. She took rather a lot of money, according to the bank. They called me about the large withdrawal because apparently you put my phone number and made security questions for me.”

 

“I did that,” Arthur says, shocked, “yeah. When I started going out of the country with Gwaine, in case they needed…”

 

“Then she got on a plane and, according to the email she sent Gwen, is now living as a fugitive in Bolivia. With Morgause. So… yeah. That happened.”

 

Merlin waits, but no one says anything. 

 

“Questions?” he asks. 

 

Arthur tugs his hand out of Gwaines and lurches to his feet, blinking at Merlin. 

 

“The money? What did you do?” Arthur asks, voice a croak.

 

“Told the bank it was sanctioned by you. I thought you’d want that.”

 

“Yeah. How much did she take?”

 

“Three thousand.”

 

“Oh. Good, that’s not… that’s okay. Do you think she needs more? Morgause lives in a shack or a shed or something, probably. With the pigs and chickens. She’s not exactly good at looking after herself.”

 

“Does she need more? Arthur, she decked Lance, stole money and-“

 

“Where’s my laptop?” Arthur asks, interrupting. 

 

He stalks to the table when Merlin points and boots it up, hunching over it. A few minutes later he gets up, shuts the lid and gets hold of his suitcase, waiting in the doorway. 

 

“I’ve put on a password,” Arthur says, “and I’ll change the bank settings so they don’t call you.”

 

“Don’t you trust me?” Merlin asks, but he’s not surprised; if Arthur’s doing what Merlin thinks he’s doing, he shouldn’t rely on Merlin backing him up. 

 

Arthur doesn’t answer. 

 

“Wait,” Gwaine says, voice commanding, “I want to know what’s going on before you leave, Arthur. I think I’ve earned that, no?”

 

Gwaine’s guessed Arthur’s plan, too, then. 

 

“I’m going to get her back,” Arthur says, chin up. 

 

“Alright. How long will you be gone?” Gwaine asks. 

 

“As long as it takes.”

 

“I need you to set a time limit, the way I do when there’s an open ended job,” Gwaine says. 

 

“I don’t know how long it will take. I have to find her, I have to talk to her, I have to… I… was she angry with me, too?” Arthur asks, turning to Merlin, dropping his suitcase. 

 

“I think she’s been having … yeah, she’s angry with you.”

 

Merlin watches Arthur’s face crumple. Gwaine gets there first, pulling Arthur into a huge and holding on to him. 

 

“She’s been horrible, recently,” Arthur says, leaning into Gwaine, “but I didn’t want her to go.”

 

“She knows that, really,” Gwaine says, “she’s just not very well at the moment. It’s not your fault, and it’s not her fault. Maybe we should have pressed her about getting help.”

 

“Help?” Merlin asks, confused, “what do you mean?”

 

“Gwaine thinks Morgana has, like, mental stuff,” Arthur mutters. 

 

“She’s paranoid,” Gwaine says, “among other things. I think if she talks to a doctor she’ll- anyway. How many tickets did you book, love?”

 

Merlin’s surprised by the endearment, but Arthur’s doesn’t react which suggests it’s not a new thing. 

 

“I booked one for you, too. Didn’t want to ask. And Merlin, but I think Merlin should stay in case she comes home.”

 

“I’m not running off to Bolivia!” Merlin protests, “damn right I’m staying here.”

 

“Merlin,” Gwaine says, “let up. She didn’t do much.”

 

“She knocked Lance out!”

 

“Lance had practically stolen her girlfriend. No offense, but Gwen’s been leading Morgana on for months,” Gwaine says. 

 

“What- what?” Merlin says, “why are you defending her? What are you on about!”

 

“Gwen hasn’t wanted to date Morgana for a while. Morgana’s been losing it for a while. No one’s done anything, except not talk to her,” Gwaine says, patience clearly waning.

 

“I tried,” Arthur says, still buried in Gwaine’s shoulder. 

 

“I know you did, love,” Gwaine says, “do you need anything else, before we go? To pack?”

 

“I don’t know,” Arthur says. 

 

“Right. Um… I think we’re good. We’ll go for two weeks, to begin with. You can email Lancelot and Mordred from the plane,” Gwaine says. 

 

Merlin watches as Gwaine tugs a bag of dirty laundry out of his backpack, goes upstairs for underwear, orders a taxi and then bustles out with Arthur. Arthur just stands, waiting, till Gwaine nudges him over to lean against Merlin. Merlin doesn’t say anything, except to mutter ‘bye’ to Arthur before they leave. 

 

Gwaine comes back, after a fortnight, but only for a week and he doesn’t bring Arthur with him. He tells Merlin, over lunch, of their progress (not a lot), how Arthur is (not great), and what they plan to do next (it’s a bit vague), but that’s the only time Merlin sees him. Then he’s gone again for a month. This time when he comes back he has Arthur with him. Merlin collects them from the airport, in a mirror of almost two months previously. 

 

This time Arthur’s not looking healthy, or happy. He’s limping, leaning on Gwaine, and looks exhausted and pale. He still disengages himself to come hug Merlin, though, and Merlin holds onto him as long as Arthur needs. He meets Gwaine’s eyes over Arthur’s head, trying to work out what happened. 

 

“I found her,” Arthur says, into Merlin’s neck, “but she won’t come home. She says she hates me and doesn’t want to talk to me or see.”

 

“Shit. I’m so sorry,” Merlin says, trying to hold Arthur even closer. 

 

“Doesn’t want to see you, either,” Arthur says, “like we’re nothing anymore.”

 

“It’ll be okay, Arthur,” Gwaine says, “you’ll see. We got her to leave Morgause’s hovel and booked into a psychiatric ward of a hospital.”

 

“That sounds positive,” Merlin says. 

 

Arthur sighs, body growing heavier against Merlin. 

 

“Could you drive us home, Merlin?” Gwaine says, “I’m asleep on my feet and Arthur’s had a headache all day.”

 

“Are you alright?” Merlin asks, pulling away to get a look at Arthur. 

 

“Yeah,” Arthur says, “haven’t had any other symptoms. No seizures of stuttering or walking into walls or anything. Gwaine’s fussing. Actually, he’s had a fever all week and needs rest more than I do.”

 

“It sounds like neither of you have been taking care of yourselves, or each other,” Merlin snaps, “so I’ll have to do it for you. Lucky for you, I got your place ready and made up the guest room for myself, so I will be your nurse you idiots. Come, car’s this way.”

 

“Ask him why he’s limping,” Gwaine says. 

 

Merlin listens to them bicker back and forth about who’s worse off all the way to the car. They both fall asleep as soon as Merlin pulls out of the carpark, Arthur snoring against the passenger window, Gwaine stretched out in the back seat. Merlin tried tp make him sit up properly and put on a belt, but Gwaine had slurred something and just kind of slumped so Merlin left him to it. He has a job waking them both up and lugging them up to bed, getting him up the stairs. He dumps them there and leaves them to sleep. 

 

He plays nurse for two days before Arthur stops looking like a zombie and Gwaine’s fever finally goes away. They’re sacked out together on the sofa, eating toasted cheese and watching Emmerdale, before Merlin asks for more information. He sits in the arm chair, tentative about bringing it up, but Arthur flicks off the TV and gets himself into more of a sitting position.

 

“You have questions,” Arthur says. 

 

“Yeah, a few,” Merlin admits. 

 

“Go ahead. Gwaine, do you wanna lie down upstairs?”

 

“Nah, I’m good here,” Gwaine slurs, from where his head’s come to rest against Arthur’s thigh. 

 

“Is she okay?” Merlin asks. 

 

“She’s… I don’t know,” Arthur says, “I think she might be, given time. I don’t know if she’ll ever come home, though. I don’t know if she’ll leave Morgause.”

 

“How did that happen?”

 

“Morgause discovered the internet and Facebook, tracked Morgana down and started to tell her stories about Dad, about Vivienne, about Mum. About me.”

 

“Gwaine was incidental, then,” Merlin muses. 

 

“’m never incidental,” Gwaine mutters, which makes Arthur laugh.

 

“Shh,” Arthur says to Gwaine, “go to sleep. You were incidental, to Morgana. Mostly. She didn’t much like him,” Arthur turns back to Merlin, “which Morgause exploited to add stuff against me.”

 

“I don’t get it,” Merlin says, “I mean, it’s _Morgana_! Fierce, loyal, in love with Gwen. You know, the skinny girl who used to stand in front of you and beat off the bullies, and shout and yell at anyone who was mean.”

 

“She’s just a bit lost,” Arthur says, looking down at Gwaine and stroking his hair, “we trusted Gwen, and Gwen was… she fell in love with Lance, and didn’t do the right thing by Morgana. She just kept things going and that hurt Morgana. It’s not Gwen’s fault, I don’t mean that. But with Gwen growing distant, me… you know. And you’ve been focussed on me a lot. She just… slipped our notice. Only Gwaine noticed.”

 

Arthur murmurs the last again, bending to kiss Gwaine’s cheek. Gwaine’s sound asleep but he moves closer. 

 

“Gwaine’s been surprising, really, hasn’t he?” Merlin says. 

 

“I guess. I admit to starting it for a bit of fun. I like going drinking with him, I like dancing with him, I like his crazy adventures. Turns out, though, that he might just be more solid than any of us. It seems I somehow earnt his loyalty.”

 

“What are you going to do about work?”

 

“I’m negotiating to sell my half of the company to Mordred. He’ll be good, for the company and for Lancelot. He’s a very good lawyer and he’s so enthusiastic. I’m just waiting for Mordred to get his finances together and get himself a loan, then we’ll sign everything. I’ll have a good chunk of money, he’ll have a good company, we both win.”

 

“What’ll you do with yourself?”

 

“Stay here a bit, might do some freelance stuff for Ranulf, do a few bits for old clients who won’t want to change to Mordred. I’m thinking of seeing about finding something temporary and going back to school, studying a wider field. That way I can apply to larger companies. I’ll keep doing immigration, but I’ll have the option of moving on in a few years. I still love it at the moment, but I know I’m going to burn out.”

 

“Yeah? Sounds like a plan. You only really did the narrow focus, own company route because it worked best for you at the time, with your… symptoms. You’re pretty much well now, though.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Arthur sighs, but it’s not an unhappy sigh. Merlin watches him, wondering when Arthur grew up so much, and how he missed it. He’s always thought of Arthur as younger than he is, as someone who needs care and protection, yet here he is, sorting Morgana, sorting himself, talking maturely and reasonably about things Merlin still can’t get his head around. Like Lance and Gwen, like what happens next. 

 

“Yeah,” Merlin says, “Yeah.”


	4. An Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: car crash in past described, nightmare, drowning (in dream), head trauma, old grief

Arthur wakes in a sweat. He’s been having nightmares since Bolivia, horrific ones that wake him up trembling with fear and make him exhausted. He’s glad he doesn’t have work at the moment, glad Gwaine doesn’t have work, glad Gwaine is there to roll over and mutter, smushing his face into Arthur’s sweating, shakey back and pat him clumsily. Tonight, though, it’s not enough. Arthur gets out of bed, trips over Gwaine’s jeans and stays where he lands, lying on the floor.

“Shit,” Gwaine mutters, voice rough with sleep, “sorry, that was my trousers, wasn’t it? Did you hurt yourself?”

“No,” Arthur says.

“Alright. Give me a second, then, and I’ll be with you. Still half asleep.”

Arthur waits, rubbing his thumb over the carpet, for Gwaine to wake up enough to get out of bed and come sit with him. Gwaine does, and he rubs Arthur’s back until Arthur settles enough to sit up, and then he gets Arthur sat against a wall and crouches in front of him, eyes grave and worried.

“Talk to me, this time,” Gwaine says, “gotta tell me. It’s enough, okay?”

“It’s just a dream,” Arthur says, “just a dream. I’m in the car, with Uncle Tristan, and he’s telling me about Mum. Same dream as always. But, Morgana’s in the back seat, now, and when Tristan loses control, Morgana starts to scream and scream. I feel the water again, and Morgana’s still screaming, and Tristan looks across and smiles, bubbles coming out of his mouth. I’ve never remembered the crash, I don’t even really know what happened. Tristan lost control, I got smashed against the side of the car, my door popped open and I happened to be close enough to the surface for some kind stranger to drag me out. That’s all I’ve ever been told. But, in the dreams… they’re so vivid.”

“Hey, slow down a bit. You’ve had these for a while. Is it just Morgana that’s different?”

“No. No. Tristan… he talks, and he’s not just telling me stories about Mum. He’s talking about immortality and finding her and. He does it on purpose. In the dream. And Morgana, she screams and screams, and then she floats, hair all around her, beautiful and suspended. Like a fly caught in amber.”

“Ah, Arthur. I’m sorry. I really am, that’s shitty.”

“I don’t think that he did do it on purpose, you know. He was a great uncle, really kind, and he loved me a lot because he loved my Mum a lot. I nearly drowned, did you know that? I was deprived of oxygen. And I hit my head. No one really knows what happened, but I was asleep for three weeks and I had to learn so much again. I remember seizing, so much to begin with, and my Dad would shake me and shake me and yell when I came out of it and… I remember Morgana, lying down with me, telling me stories and making me laugh. Always her, always there, always.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I reckon I got better because of her. She came with me, to my therapy session and PT and speech therapy and doctor’s appointments. She and Merlin. Merlin would wait outside with Hunith, who’d drive us, and Morgana would come in with me. She shared, with Merlin, and they got me to do the exercises, cheered me on, made me talk all the time by winding me up until I could do it easily again, raced me, challenged me… everything.”

“I think we need to do something. I don’t think these dreams, these new ones I mean, I don’t think they’re part of your head stuff.”

“Trauma. The dreams never really were, they’re a side effect of the amnesia. I don’t remember, so my brain tries to piece together the missing space. I just need…”

Arthur stops, thinking, considering. He could go back to therapy. He sees a therapist every few months anyway, just to check in. He could make it more regular. But…

“I want to go to Ireland,” Arthur says, not daring to look at Gwaine, “I want to meet your Mum. I want to take a few weeks, focus on that, on you, on us. I can look into course options, see if I can do the masters I want to here. I’ll take the offer Mordred’s made and we can just go. I want to know your family.”

“I don’t like going home.”

“I know. I know that you left and feel guilty about it, I know it’s hard to be where your father died, I know that your sister isn’t as forgiving as she could be. I also know, because I’ve spoken to her, that she’s mostly upset with you for not visiting, not for abandoning them. Which you didn’t do, by the way. I know it’s hard, but I want to meet them. We’ll have to do it sometime.”

“I guess.”

“I’m not going to push. I’d like, though, to be taking care of you for once.”

Gwaine smiles, lifting Arthur’s face and cupping it, thumb pressing into his cheek gently.

“You do. Always,” Gwaine says.

“I just want to not be here, dealing with this, anymore. You’re right- it’s not my ‘head stuff’. It’s just excess baggage that’s trying to get back to me, even though I purposefully left it in Jamaica. Someone’s trying to give it back.”

“You need more sleep, mate, you sound batty.”

Arthur laughs, breath puffing into Gwaine’s face and making him grimace.

“Sleepy breath,” Arthur says, blowing.

“Stop it. Come on, sleep more, then we’ll decide about Ireland.”

“I’ll talk to Merlin, too. That’ll help. Make a one off with my therapist, on the phone. Write to Banana. Might go see Hunith on the weekend, let her mother me a bit.”

“I’ll not come along for that.”

“No, that’s okay. Whenever you’re ready to meet her is fine.”

They get back into bed and lie down, and Arthur’s relaxed and dozy but he can feel Gwaine’s tense back, the tightness of his breath. He wraps himself around him as the big spoon and tucks his hand under Gwaine’s shirt.

“I know that this commitment, me meeting you’re family, is one of the things that gets to you,” he says, softly, “I really won’t push and it won’t be a problem if you can’t do it now. I told you, I can wait. As long as you need.”

Gwaine relaxes a little, so Arthur repeats himself and promises to wait, kisses Gwaine’s neck. Gwaine relaxes properly and sighs, muttering an apology before dropping off.

 

* * *

 

Gwaine watches Arthur as they get closer and closer to home. On the flight from the UK to Ireland it was Arthur reassuring Gwaine, holding his arm and distracting him, making him laugh, and to begin with he kept it up on the car journey. But the nearer they get the quieter and quieter Arthur becomes.

“Nervous?” Gwaine asks, then carries on before Arthur can deny it, “Mam already likes you loads, from the phone, and my sister doesn’t hate you.”

“I know. Not nervous.”

“What is it, then?”

“Just… nervous!” Arthur laughs, relaxing a little and turning to face Gwaine, letting go of the ‘oh shit’ handle, “sorry. I don’t know why. Just the usual meet the family nerves, I guess. I haven’t done this very often.”

“I’ve never done it before. Never brought anyone back, except as mates. Merlin’s been, by the way.”

“Mm.”

Arthur looks out of the window, eyes tracking the fields and animals, lightening as he takes in the countryside. Gwiane’s noticed that before; that Arthur finds some kind of kinship and comfort in the earth and trees and beasts around him. Though, he manages to kill any plants he’s put in charge of, so that only goes so far.

“Nearly there,” Gwaine says, feeling his own nerves simmering steadily.

“Your mother said that she’d cook you macaroni cheese.”

“How very Irish.”

“It’s your favourite, don’t mock.”

“Right, you’re right. Christ, hate this place.”

“I know. They know that, too, remember. You’ll be fine. And, you know, we can leave whenever you need. That was the point of getting the hotel room.”

“Yeah. Thanks, by the way, for paying. I dunno what’s going on with my stupid taxes.”

“No worries, I’m set for a bit now. If worst comes, I can dip into my inheritance and not make a dent. Mum left me a shit ton of money.”

Gwaine hums, but doesn’t reply; they’re there.

Arthur watches Gwaine’s family wide eyed all evening, as if he’s trying to absorb everything into himself. When Gwaine bickers with Molly over the cheese Arthur’s head twitches back and forth between them. When Molly’s kid Sean knocks over his water and his sister, Nim, starts bawling at him Arthur bites his lip to keep from grinning. And Gwaine’s Mam…

“The way that boy looks at me,” she says, later, over the dishes, “it’s as if he’s never seen a woman before!”

“I reckon it’s because you’re a mother,” Gwaine says, “and I know Mol is, too, but she’s a kid here with us, yeah? Arthur’s a bit funny about family. His is rather fucked- oops. Scuse.”

“You know the rules; swear in Gaelic or not at all.”

“Right. Mam, I love you, you’re so cool.”

Gwaine gets a hug for that, the first one of this trip. It’s nice. His Mam’s never been that much of a hugger, but when they were little she’d scoop them up and just surround them with herself, zip them into her coat with her, swing them up onto her shoulder or her bag. The feel of her is familiar.

“I like this one,” she says, kissing his hair, “you work on keeping him around, okay?”

“I am. I talk to him, even. I brought him here, didn’t I?”

“You did. I hope… I’ve always worried that Tom's death would take all the trust and light from you, forever. But here you are, happy. And not just the way you’ve been happy, restless and roaming, but really, truly happy. Even if you don’t manage to keep him, I’m proud of you for this, mo ghrá.”

Gwaine closes his eyes, letting the sound of his own language roll over him. He’s missed it, the soft syllables breaking around him, his mother tonguing the consonants.

“Tá grá agam duit.”

They speak Gaelic for a while, going over what everyone around is doing while drying the dishes, laughing at the jokes that make no sense in English. Molly comes through demands they speak English in front of her partner, because he still hasn’t grasped the language, and Arthur sidles in with Nim in his arms, asleep on his shoulder, and Sean tripping along at his heels.

“I told them a story,” Arthur says, sounding bewildered.

Molly takes both of them to bed and Arthur sits. He smiles when Gwaine slips into Irish so they go on with the gossip session, ignoring it when James retreats upstairs after his wife and kids. When he’s done clearing up, Gwiane stands against the counter and smiles at Arthur, who smiles right back.

“You two are ridiculous,” his Mam says, laughing, “go on with you, go to your nice secluded hotel and do your eye sex there.”

Arthur looks a little horrified and scarpers, muttering something about the bathroom, but Gwaine is too used to his mam to do more than laugh. She winks at him, suggesting she was just out to embarrass Arthur. They do go, though they don’t continue their eye sex. Instead, Arthur tells Gwaine the story he made up for Sean and Nim, then keeps talking, more and more softly, in more and more of a monotone, until Gwaine drifts off to sleep.

The next morning Gwaine wakes up warm, bed soft, Arthur against his skin. He stretches, luxuriating at being in Arthur’s bed instead of his own. Arthur’s the kind of person who splurges on comforts like mattresses, spending shit loads of money just to sleep on clouds. Gwaine’s coming round to his point of view, after spending so many nights in Arthur’s fluff-bed. Arthur lets out a massive snore, jerking Gwaine out of his cloud fantasy and making him laugh. He cracks open an eye and remembers where he is.

“Oh,” he says, the plummeting feeling so unexpected after waking up so high.

Arthur shifts, restless, and makes an unhappy sound. Gwaine turns towards him, meaning to soothe him back to sleep, but Arthur’s eyes are wide open, staring at Gwaine.

“Morning,” Gwaine says.

“Oh,” Arthur says, unknowingly echoing Gwiane, “I… huh. No dreams. Nice.”

“You sure? You were a bit toss-y and turn-y for a while in the middle there.”

“Why were you ‘wake?” Arthur says, yawning in the middle.

“Needed a piss, didn’t want to do it in the bed. Though, you paid enough that they couldn’t complain about the mess.”

“Mm. Nefarious watersports were on my mind when picking a hotel.”

Gwaine laughs, taken off guard. He’d definitely not expected kinky sex jokes this early, Arthur’s usually like a bear with a sore head before twelve. Arthur grins at him, then his eyes suddenly spark with excitement.

“What?” Gwaine asks.

“Jus’ ‘membered. Your Mum said she’d make us…” Arthur trails off, eyes glazing over.

“Huh?” Gwaine says, wondering if he’s missed a reference, but Arthur just sneezes in his face, “oh. Lovely.”

“Scuse. Sorry, snuck up. Your Mum said she’d make breakfast.”

“Okay.”

“Pancakes, Gwaine. Pancakes! You never make me pancakes.”

“I could.”

“I guess we’ll avoid housefires, though,” Arthur says, brow crinkling, serious, and then his face splits into a big grin and he laughs at his own joke.

Gwaine finds himself thinking it’s ‘adorable’, which is just not on, so he gets up and goes for a shower in the ridiculously appointed bathroom. Arthur comes stumbling in after ten minutes and joins Gwaine, slipping on the wet floor and careening into Gwaine’s chest.

“’S’nice,” Arthur mumbles, content to stay where he is.

“You’re very much not a morning person, are you?” Gwaine says.

He manages to keep Arthur from drowning himself, getting a thrill of something when he realises that it’s almost routine these days to keep Arthur from braining himself on the side of the bath. He also manages to get Arthur dressed, out of the hotel and on the way to his Mam’s without mishap. Arthur does trip into the gutter, but Gwaine catches him before he ends up on the ground. They make it in one piece.

“Boys! Good. Mam’s got the frying pan out, you’re just in time,” Molly says, flinging open the door and kissing Gwaine enthusiastically on the cheek.

Gwaine finds it terribly amusing to leave Arthur, still mostly asleep and very befuddled, at the kitchen table with Molly, one of the most morning people Gwaine knows and already talking a mile a minute, slipping Gaelic words in, expecting Arthur to follow along. He stands just out of sight in the hallway and watches Arthur attempt to engage with the world.

“Gwaine?”

Gwaine jumps, spinning, but it’s just his mother, eyes questioning.

“Arthur,” Gwaine tries to explain, gesturing in the direction.

His mother peers through and then snorts with inelegant laughter, shoving Gwaine into the room. The look of relief on Arthur’s face is comical, but Gwaine takes pity and sits beside him, allowing him to pretend to be talking with Gwaine. Molly gets up and opens the back door, transferring her attention to Nim and Sean and James.

Gwaine watches his Mam as she whisks up batter and heats the pan, so quick and familiar. Arthur blinks at the wall and mutters something about it smelling like butter, then yawns hugely and bites his lip before slumping against Gwaine and letting himself drowse.

“Is your Arthur quite well?” James asks, coming into the kitchen and dumping two coats on a chair.

“He’s just not very awake,” Gwaine says, patting Arthur’s hair, “takes him a while to get going.”

Arthur shakes himself back to alertness and then lists to the left, waving clumsily at James and pretending to be awake. James laughs.

“My God, there’s morning people, then there are those who are really not morning people, then there are people who just don’t get up, then there’s… that,” James says, indicating Arthur who’s almost on the floor, eyes drooping.

Gwaine grins. It’s good, though, to see Arthur dopey instead of exhausted, good that he slept well enough to be in this state, good that he hasn’t woken up so terrified that ‘half asleep’ gives way to ‘alert as hell and buzzing, ready to punch Gwaine if he gets too close’.

“I’m awake,” Arthur mutters, glazed eyes roaming, “oh, good morning Ms Green.”

“You only just noticed Mam?” Gwaine asks, laughing.

“She been here a while?” Arthur asks, brow furrowing with confusion.

“Good morning, Arthur,” his Mam says, “ignore Gwaine. Drowse all you like, it’s a compliment to the kitchen I’m sure. And, again, call me Toni.”

“Right,” Arthur says, “sorry. Uh… would… um…”

“Go lie down in the living room, if you like,” ‘Toni’ says, reading Arthur’s mind, “though I will have Mol send the kids in to jump on you when I’m done with the pancakes.”

Arthur mutters something nonsensical about tricycles and staggers out, probably to slump half on the sofa and snore wildly. Gwaine watches him go.

“You’re gone, mate,” James says, sitting in Arthur empty chair, peeling an orange, “completely and utterly imfatuated.”

“You’re one to talk,” Gwaine says, “you’re entirely under Mol’s thumb. Mam, can I call you Toni, too?”

“No you cannot,” she says, “I shoved you out of my poor vagina, I think that buys me the rights to the name ‘Mam’.”

“Not really,” James says, “I have this argument all the time at work, it actua-“

“Shut up,” she says, aiming the spatula, “take your lawyer talk elsewhere and let a woman disgust her son in peace.”

“You’ve said it too often,” Gwaine says, “I’m immune. I know you have ‘lady bits’, as Arthur calls them, and have had sex with my Da at least twice but probably much more, and I know far too much about that sex. You’re a dreadful woman, Toni.”

Gwaine gets the spatula thrown at his head for that.

They stay in Ireland for almost a week. They were planning on staying the full week, but on Thursday it gets too much for Gwaine and he ends up shouting at Molly and breaking two of his mother’s plates before storming into his old bedroom and pacing, raging at the walls. It’s not until he’s calm that Arthur steps into the room.

“What?” Gwaine snaps, but he’s lost most of his anger.

“Was waiting. Outside. Alright?”

“No. She shouldn’t talk about James like that.”

“Gwaine… did… I mean, I get… no, I don’t. I can’t claim to ‘get’ your grief. I guess everyone does that their own way. I never really lost someone, not like that. Not like your Dad.”

“Molly’s a fair bit younger. She was still a kid when he died, while I was a teenager. I just lost it, when it happened, completely lost it. Fucked up my A-levels, got drunk a lot, tried anything I could, bought a motorcycle. Couldn’t see any reason not to, not anymore. It’s not so much that he died, you know? That’s sad and I hated it, still hate it. I completely lost control of myself and my life, and I never really got that back.”

“No one’s in control of their lives.”

Arthur sounds so disgusted and grudging about it that Gwaine can’t help but laugh.

“If you could control the insects you’d do it, wouldn’t you?” he asks, “not even to make them work for you, you’d just make them do exactly as they do now, but under your control. And all the oceans, the sun, the sand, the people, everything.”

“Make everything better, wouldn’t I?”

“See, I don’t think you would. I reckon you’d just take a quiet joy in controlling everything, knowing where everything is and what everything’s doing. You always wanted to be professor X when you were a kid, right? Instead of someone cool.”

“And you wanted to be Wolverine. Not Logan, Wolverine. Motorcycle, restless wandering, angry. I bet you were a scrappy kid, all nails and teeth, doing nothing without kicking and screaming.”

“Ah, you know me,” Gwaine says, grinning, “can’t go in a single pub round here. Or café, really. Tescos chucked me out and gave me a life ban, but who knows if that’s still in effect. Actually, pretty sure there are maybe three paying establishments that wouldn’t bar their doors if they saw me coming.”

Gwaine means to make it a boast, but it comes out flat. Arthur shrugs, then drops to the floor. For a second Gwaine thinks he’s having a seizure or passed out or something, but then Arthur gets off his knees to crouch and grins at Gwaine, holding out a closed fits.

“Dropped it,” Arthur says, “oops.”

“Dropped what?”

“What I got for you.”

“What?”

Arthur opens his fist. Gwaine peers at Arthur’s palm, but there’s nothing there. He wonders if Arthur’s lost what’s left of his mind.

“I’m not hallucinating,” Arthur says, “and that is so not as fun as one would imagine, by the way.”

“I know. What exactly is this microscopic something?”

“Uh, it’s stupid, never mind.”

Arthur goes bright red, bounces to his feet and tries to leave the room. He misses the doorway and walks straight into the wall.

“Door’s to the left,” Gwaine says.

“Shut up. Ow.”

“What were you doing? With the drama.”

“Just… it’s so stupid. I thought it would be funny, or something. In the hall, when I was waiting, I was bored. I could hear you stomping about. So, I caught… oh my God… let’s go home and have me go to Merlin’s so I can tell him and he can tell me if it’s as daft as I think.”

“Ring him. Or, you know, just ask me.”

“I caught all the… alright. Fine. When you were stomping about, you were stamping out your anger and grief, and it was all squeezing away under the door, but there were other bits escaping too. Good bits. So I caught those. It’s all my stupid therapist’s fault! She used to go on and on about visualising my feelings, and I couldn’t understand what she meant and so I…”

“C’mere.”

Arthur shuffles over and Gwaine pulls him onto the bed and takes his hands, undoing his fists (which are still as if he’s holding something).

“Show me. What’s this one?” Gwaine asks, poking at Arthur’s palm.

“Don’t.”

“Not mocking. Tell me, come on. I want to know.”

Arthur sighs, and mutters and goes redder. Gwaine manages to distinguish ‘your passion’.

“And this?”

“God, please, this is humiliating. Alright, you care loads. Don’t want that to escape.”

“This?”

“You love for your Dad. And Molly, et al.”

“This?”

“Please.”

“Come on, last one, I promise.”

“You stormed off before you broke anything important and before you actually hurt Molly’s feelings. You’re kind of careful of other people, observant of them, though you pretend not to be.”

Gwaine kisses each of Arthur’s hands, then cups his face.

“Thank you, Arthur.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s stupidly soppy, and incredibly lovely of you to catch all that. I was just having a tantrum, and you made it into something that actually makes me look good. Thanks.”

“Still want to go home, now. Please. I like it here and I like your family, but I don’t much like you here all the time.”

“I did warn you.”

“I know.”

So they go home.


	5. chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS (SLIGHT SPOILERS): Argument, Gwaine-issues over commitment, seizure

> _Dear Merlin,_
> 
> _I shouldn't write to you, I know I shouldn't, not when I'm so angry with you. All of you, but you especially. You basically just turned your back on me when I was spiralling out of control, and you were supposed to be my best friend. I mean, Gwen screws me over, cheats on me (and yes, you can still cheat if you're in a poly relationship) and then walks out, and you take her side. She was a bitch. Oh, I suppose I can see her side of it. I knew one day she'd fall in love for real, I knew that poly wasn't going to work for her long term. I just didn't think it would be bloody Lance and so bloody soon and I didn't think she'd hurt me like that. And I didn't think that you would be a total arsehole about it all._
> 
> _I told you I shouldn't write when angry. I can't be bothered to start again for the millionth time, so you'll just have to read it. I didn't write to tell you off in totally justified rage, though. I actually wrote about Arthur. Because when have either of our lives ever revolved around anything else? I've never been able to work out if we idolise, hate or infantalise him. Maybe all three, and other stuff thrown in too. Anyway, I am writing to tell you that if you do not do a good job of keeping an eye on him and looking after him I will break out of the all-but-prison he's all-but-locked me in and get on a plane and hunt you down. I learnt how to hunt, with Uther. He taught both Arthur and I all about the skill of stalking our pray, of watching, of waiting. I know how to pick the perfect moment, I know how to find your vulnerabilities and use them to trap you, isolate you and then tear you to pieces. Slowly._
> 
> _I used to trust you, but I don't anymore. So I will warn you; I have ways of keeping watch, of making sure Arthur is alright, that you're doing your duty. And if you fail, or even just slip, I will destroy you utterly._
> 
> _I hate Arthur, too. But he's still Arthur, and he writes to me every week and tries to call and sends me ridiculous video messages and orders me cookies and funds whatever I want and pays whatever bills I send and then grumbles at me and laughs at me and mocks me and tries to contact me and always, always cares. Arthur's a complete prat and he's insensitive and stupid and obnoxious and rude and basically a terrible person, but he cares so fucking deeply. I hate him, though. So I am writing to you._
> 
> _Tell him that I will contact him, one day.Tell him that he should stop contacting me and I never want to hear from him again, but do it in such a way that he'll keep doing it anyway. You know how, I'm sure. Tell him you know I love him and convince him of that, but don't tell him that I told you I do. I'm very far from forgiveness, and I'm very angry with him (and you, and the world, and everyone). I don't want to see him or speak to him and I just wish he'd be gone, have never have existed, but I think that, perhaps, one day I could possibly begin to feel different. It's a vague possibility and I'm selfish enough to want him to still be there. You can go throw yourself off a bridge, for all I care._
> 
> _The best friend you ever had who you betrayed and now wants to spit in your face,_
> 
> _Morgana_

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur’s laughing harder than Gwaine’s seen him to for months, something about Lady Gaga cracking him up so hard that he’s staggering around the dance floor, bumping people. Gwaine ducks into the crowd and pulls Arthur against him, steadying him, sending charming smiles to the people Arthur’s annoyed with his careening.

“Oi,” Arthur whine, “I’m dancin’! Was BORN this waaaay!”

“Yeah, true. Merlin told me the times they tried to have the crazy surgically removed. Sadly, it failed,” Gwaine says, making a sad face.

“BORN this way,” Arthur says again, turning to face Gwaine, grinning at him, “Get it? Because I wasn’t?”

Arthur tries to twirl, upsets his balance and crashes into Gwaine, winding him.

“Christ, you’re a menace. What’ve you been drinking?”

“It was blue,” Arthur says, seemingly awed by booze coming in colours, “They come in red, too. Shall I get a red one? There’s a lovely girl… somewhere. Arse.”

“I’m an arse?”

“No, she has a nice one.”

“Lech.”

“You have a nice one, too. She let me give hers a poke, cus I accidentally walked into a wall and told her it was the ONLY cure. Can I poke yours, too?”

“No, you cannot poke my bum, you pervert. What are you, a misogynist twat?” Gwaine asks, surprised. He looks around, wondering if he can somehow apologise to the girl, but when he finds someone carrying shots, it turns out to be Mithian.

“Hello, Gwaine,” she says, sashaying over, “your bloke’s been leching about.”

“Got that. He thinks it’s hilarious. Sorry, he’s not usually… well, he usually such a prat but he doesn’t usually ask to pinch your bum.”

Mithian grins, turning her head to Arthur sharply, her plaited hair following heavily.

“Is that what you told him?” she asks.

“Yuh,” Arthur says, grinning.

“He was trying to find the loos, walked into a wall, tripped over and used my arse to balance,” Mithian says.

“That puts a better light on his leching, then,” Gwaine says.

Arthur whines, wordless, elbow digging painfully into Gwaine’s ribs.

“I think duty calls,” Mithian says, laughing again.

“What are you even doing here?” Gwaine asks, “not here, I mean doing here doing this?”

“She’s finding her roots,” Arthur says, “come on! Dancing, Gwaine! It’s the SONG!”

“Stop shouting random words, you twat. What song?”

“That one! By Orange. Blue. Red. Girls’ one. Oh bugger it!”

“Pink,” Mithian provides, soft, “it was ‘boys’ one’ until the nineteen hundreds, though. Go watch QI.”

“No! Dancing to… to… like you’re nothing, you’re fucking perfect, to me.”

Arthur wraps his arms around Gwaine’s neck and breathes out loudly into his neck, pressing closer.

“Really fucking perfect,” Arthur mutters, swaying (probably from the alcohol).

“Don’t you ever feel like you’re less than fucking perfect,” Gwaine provides, with the next line, “okay. Dancing. Bye, Mith.”

Gwaine lets Arthur sway to the song that really isn’t slow, and when it’s over he helps Arthur into the loos so he doesn’t have to cry on the dancefloor, because ‘Gee Gee, they’re _good_ ones! I dunno where they’re from. Stupid windows! Seeing. Holes.’. When they come back out the beat’s changed, the DJ’s decided it’s time to sway and has put Adele on. Arthur beams, though, bouncing into the crowd dancing and pressing himself against Gwaine, giggling.

At first he goes too fast, restless, bouncing, too excited, but he slowly deflates and his body relaxes into Gwaine’s hand tucking into Gwaine’s belt, right hand jerking in the small of Gwaine’s back a few times before settling, steady, warm. He leans, sways, hums for a while, then straightens up and pulls Gwaine against him, instead, and steers him, firmly, as the music changes to Beyonce.

“Singing Etta James,” Arthur says, “I like.”

Arthur spins them slowly, laughing quietly, then lets them sway.

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur’s lying flat out on the floor when Gwaine gets home, on his stomach, limp, looking like he just flopped and then starfished there.

“You should move to my house,” Arthur says into the carpet, hand snaking out faster than Gwaine expected, to grab onto Gwaine’s foot.

“I should not, I have a very nice one of my own, here.”

Arthur’s thumb presses hard into the arch of his foot, then turns gentle to find all his ticklish spots. Gwaine shrieks in surprise, flails, and falls half on top of Arthur. Arthur lets go his foot and rolls, tugging Gwaine into one of his full-body octopus hugs; arms and legs wrapped tight around all of Gwaine, head tucked in tight at his neck.

“Hi,” Gwaine says, still giggling a bit from the tickling, “could’ve just asked for a hug.”

“I don’t want a hug,” Arthur says.

“I have evidence that sugge-“

“Shut up. Just shut up.”

Gwaine notices that Arthur’s actually genuinely pissed off, not just petulant. He’s surprised, because pissed off Arthur is usually shouting and stomping and _vocal_ , not cuddly.

“Okay,” Gwiane says.

“How many times have you been here, recently?”

“I thought I was meant to sh- right. Wednesday, Monday, Saturday.”

“To stay the night.”

“Saturday, Sunday.”

“Sunday doesn’t count because we were drunk and you brought us here by accident. Not fun, by the way; very difficult to negotiate your little hallway when I’m unco-ordinated.”

“It’s your own fault, you were in raptures about Mithian’s bum again. It was Karma.”

Arthur looks up, first signs of a good mood showing, amused.

“Jealous?” He asks.

“Nope,” Gwaine says, wriggling until one of Arthur’s hands migrates to him bum, “perfectly secure in my knowledge that you adore mi culo.”

Arthur scowls again, removes his hand and hides his face.

“I was here, on Saturday and on Sunday,” he says.

“Yeah.”

Gwaine knows where this is going, and Arthur has every right to do it. He’s not sure that he wants to hear it, though. Ah. Thus the octopus impression. Very clever. No running away from it, this way. And the semblance of grumpy instead of angry. No warning indicators.

“Oh, you bloody clever git,” Gwaine says, “is it bad that I find that slightly arousing?”

Arthur brings his knee up sharply and presses harder than is comfortable against Gwaine’s bollocks.

“Stop it,” Arthur says, “I don’t want you avoiding this in any way, you bastard. We promised to take it slow, not glacially. And you promised you’d talk to me and make an attempt. Well, you’re not even trying, here. Not anymore. You have fallen into complacency and I’m calling you on it because I get that you have issues and that it is really, really hard and painful for you, but I don’t care. You should live in my house because it’s basically yours.”

“It is not!”

“Have you looked around, recently? How many clothes do you even have, here? You wore sweats and a jumper Saturday and went to work in ripped jeans on Monday morning.”

“Are you cross that I’m teaching again?”

Arthur ignores that, refusing to be side-tracked.

“My spare room has become your walk in closet, you clothes freak. My livingroom is full of English Language books and grammar stuff. The other spare room now has a desk, a filing system full of hand outs, a printer and no bed in it. The kitchen is full of your Spanish cook books which you have no ability to use, a cook you are not. Stick to cereal.”

“I am proud of my milk pouring ability.”

“Stop making jokes. My shelves are full of your trinkets, my washing machine is full of your clothes, the rug in the hall is from some far flung place you went to, there are two new armchairs in the livingroom which, by the way, do not match the sofa. I had to put a ton of stuff into storage to make space for those, the coffee table you brought over as a foot rest, the TV table with ‘all the space for awesome DVDs’ that I never watch, the curtains you like to have in your bedroom, the drawers in the bathroom because you kept knocking everything off the shelves I had, the-“

“I get it,” Gwaine says, “I’m a bit of a hoarder.”

“No, you idiot! You’re not a hoarder, you just live there instead of here you idiot! You idiot. God, you idiot. You have a sofa, a fridge, and that’s pretty much it, here. You sleep on a mattress on the floor, for heaven’s sake, because you thought my third guest bedroom should have a double bed not a single one and supplied it.”

“You have too many gues-“

Arthur’s knee presses harder and Gwaine stills and stops making jokes. Arthur suddenly lets go and gets up off the floor, then wobbles.

“Ow. Pins and needles,” Arthur says, carefully light, “what do you want to do, for dinner? I’m not cooking, so it has to be cheese on toast made by you or take out.”

“I can manage pasta, and rice, and all sorts of stuff. Shut up.”

“… oh shit. Gwaine?”

Gwaine doesn’t get off the floor or open his eyes or look at Arthur.

“Do what you want. Maybe you should go to yours, tonight,” Gwaine suggests.

Arthur’s silent for a long, long few moments.

“You’re mad,” he says.

“Yes, actually, I am. I don’t want to be pressured or nagged or- I’d have dated a woman if I wanted a fucking _girlfriend_ ,” Gwaine spits.

“That’s not very feminist.”

“I’m not a feminist, I’m a bloody man. You know why I have my own flat still? It’s so I can kick you out and get a little peace and quite.”

“…oh. What? Um… okay.”

Gwaine waits. Arthur leaves, after hovering for a bit. It’s odd, the shift from angry and demanding octopus to the uncertain wavering, but Gwaine doesn’t care. He just wants him gone. He gets off the floor and rings Percy, talks him into going out clubbing, and gets as drunk as he possibly can before passing out on Percy’s sofa. He even calls into work sick the next morning and ignores Percy’s bitten lip and fish impression in the morning. He pulls out his phone to block it out.

He has ten missed calls from Arthur, and three messages. Gwaine sighs and presses the answer phone number.

‘….Gwaine? Hello?.... you there?... oh. Right. Answer… thingy. What? Hello?’ *click*

‘Gee Gee, my head hurts…. Are you there?.... ‘ *click*

‘hello? Hello?... Gwaine?.... Where are you?’ *click*

Gwaine’s pretty sure he hears a sob stifled in the last message. He gets up, takes Percy’s coffee out of his hand and drags him up.

“Drive me to Arthur’s.”

“Drive yourself.”

“My blood alcohol level is ridiculous, don’t make jokes. Come on!”

“You have a fight with him? Not my fault. I’m hungover and you’re a shit friend.”

Percy’s already getting into his coat and shoes, though, so Gwaine ignores his sniping and shoves his feet into trainers. He nags Percy to go faster the whole way over and jumps out of the car before it stops, fumbling his keys and then dropping them and then crashing into the house.

“Arthur?”

There’s no answer. Gwaine looks all downstairs before jogging up to check the bedroom. He finds Arthur in the spare room- no, not a spare room; Gwaine’s office. Gwaine looks around and sees all his work stuff, not sure how it got there. Arthur’s sitting against the wall under the window.

“Arthur?” Gwaine asks.

“Gwaine,” Arthur says, eyes sliding shut.

“Don’t pass out on me. What’s going on? You hurt?”

Gwaine gets down beside him and Arthur leans into him.

“No. Did I leave you freaky messages?”

“Yeah. Freaked me out over hangover coffee, you prat.”

“Sorry. Meant to octopus attack you, then give you space to deal. But I got a bit confused, had a seizure.”

“Shit.”

“Shouldn’t happen. I don’t get them much. Not sure why. Gwaine?”

“Yeah, you okay?”

“Still bit confused. Headache. Didn’t call Merlin, ‘case I rang you. He’d be cross.”

“You want to lie down? I called into work sick, I can help you.”

“Can’t remember how to stand up,” Arthur admits, and suddenly he’s crying.

Not sobbing, just gentle, tired tears. Gwaine gets to his feet and pulls Arthur into a standing position, then hesitates. Arthur’s knees try to go backwards, though, so Gwaine uses brute strength and lifts him.

“Christ, Pendragon. Too much muscle. You’re heavy as shite.”

Gwaine’s glad it’s not far between one room and another. Arthur falls asleep before he even gets to bed, burrowing into Gwaine’s shoulder. He grouses inarticulately when Gwaine puts him down so Gwaine climbs in after him, kicking off his trainers. He’s about to drift off when Percy slips into the room.

“All good?” Percy asks, “wasn’t sure if you’d need a ride anywhere.”

“No, we’re good.”

“Is this your doing?”

“No! At least, I don’t think so. He doesn’t think so, I don’t think? Maybe. Silly sod, I think he was worried about me.”

“Right. Because you went and got plonkered and couldn’t answer the phone.”

“No, before that. I’ve been having Ireland dreams.”

“Oh. Poor you, I know the type.”

“Yeah. Hey, I haven’t seen you in ages, thanks for last night.”

“No big.”

“You good?”

“Yeah. Met a guy.”

“Nice. Come over, sometime. Just drop by after work, whenever.”

“You have no furniture,” Percy grumbles, leaning in the doorway.

“Here. I… I guess I live here,” Gwaine says.

Percy straightens, stares at him, then gives him a thumbs up and wanders off.

“Yeah. I live here, now,” Gwaine repeats, curling closer to Arthur, “you total prat.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 “Maybe we could go live somewhere exotic. You can teach, I’ll do something. It’ll be hot and we can go swimming all the time.”

 

Gwaine grins.

 

“I know it’s raining and you’re wet,” he says, “but that’s no reason to flee the country, never to return.”

 

Arthur glares and shakes himself, spraying water in Gwaine’s direction. He shrugs out of his coat and throw it in Gwaine’s direction then strips out of his clothes.

 

“Even my pants are wet,” Arthur complains, peeling off his underwear and throwing it in Gwaine’s face.

 

“I get it, I should have agreed to run away to Mexico with you! If I do that will you stop throwing stuff at- were you wearing giant grandpa briefs? Arthur, these are massive!”

 

Gwaine drops the coat on the floor and holds up the pants, gazing reverently at them.

 

“They’re comfy,” Arthur defends.

 

“They must come up to your nipples. Or give you a really saggy arse.”

 

“God, shut up. I bought them by accident, if you must know, last week. So much for online shopping being easier. They were all of three quid so I just kept them, and I ran out of- shut up.”

 

Gwaine laughs again and drops the knickers on top of the coat.

 

“I can’t believe that I have you here, all naked, and I’m taking the time to mock you for your underwear choices,” Gwaine says.

 

“I thought you’d just lost what little was left of your mind.”

 

Gwaine pulls Arthur roughly against him, hand planted firmly on Arthur’s arse. Arthur’s distracted from thoughts of sex to thoughts of warmth. He presses closes, moaning, getting his hands under Gwaine’s layers of clothes against his warm back. Gwaine shrieks and tries to escape, but Arthur gets hold and keeps him still.

 

“Oh you’re so warm,” Arthur says.

 

“Stop using me as a heating system and have, like, shower sex with me or sommat. That’ll warm you up.”

 

Arthur hesitates, but gives in to Gwaine’s horniness, grudgingly. Once he’s been under the hot water, Gwaine still pressed close for a while, though, he admits showering was a good plan.

 

“Warm,” he mutters, against Gwaine’s collar bone.

 

He notices how much skin Gwaine has and tries biting a bit of it, making Gwaine squirm and grumble. Arthur moves his mouth over Gwaine’s shoulder and neck.

 

“Stop trying to snack on me and do something productive,” Gwiane says, shoving his hips into Arthur’s and knocking him against the wall.

 

“Ow,” Arthur says, though it didn’t hurt.

 

He tugs and Gwaine slips, falling into him, and Arthur has instant access to skin and warmth and all good stuff. He takes his time and moves slowly until Gwaine’s a hot shaking mess and would be a puddle of goo in the bottom of the bath if Arthur wasn’t holding him up. Only then does he let Gwaine climax, wet and gross against the tile.

 

“Nice,” Gwaine says, limp, pathetic, happy.

 

“I like sex,” Arthur muses, “it’s fun. I even like it when you orgasm like that. It just makes such a mess.”

 

He lets Gwaine slide down to sit and sets about cleaning the splatter up.

 

“What shall I do with this?” Gwaine asks, getting a warm fist around Arthur’s erection.

 

Arthur considers, letting Gwaine rub and twist, hips shifting. He’s not really in the mood for sex, or a blowjob, or anything much. But, he has an erection.

 

“Just wank me off,” Arthur decides, “quick.”

 

“Not in the mood?” Gwaine asks, hand shifting from playing to purpose.

 

It takes Gwaine all of two minutes to make Arthur come, ducking so he doesn’t get a facial then getting to his feet and rinsing off, rubbing the mess out with his foot. Arthur yawns and stretching, shoving Gwaine out of the way so he can get under the spray.

 

“I’ll go make dinner, shall I?” Gwaine says, “seeing as I’m no longer needed as heater or beater.”

 

Arthur laughs, leaning back expecting Gwaine to be there. Gwaine is and he’s warm and solid and Arthur hums, pulling Gwaine’s arms around himself and tilting his head back onto his shoulder so Gwaine will kiss him.

 

“Kay,” he says, when Gwaine starts nibbling on his neck, “go. Cook. Be my housewife.”

 

“I work, you don’t, therefore….”

 

“I’m like Lord Peter Wimsey; rich, important, awesome, with no need or desire for a job.”

 

“Okay, Lord Peter. I’ll be… what’s his butler? Jeeves?”

 

“That’s Woodehouse, you cretin. Wimsey’s butler is Bunter. And you can’t be Bunter, he’s methodical and organised and not Lord Peter’s gay partner. You can be Harriet Vane.”

 

“Is she Lord Peter’s gay lover?”

 

“Partner. We’re not French.”

 

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

 

“Non. Me faire dejeuner.”

 

“’Dejeuner’ is lunch. Am I making sandwiches?”

 

Arthur elbows Gwaine and finally has the shower to himself. He washes himself carefully, taking his time and enjoying the feel of the washcloth against his skin. He has a really soft one, Merlin got it from a baby shop as a joke and Arthur loves it. It has little wales on it, blue ones. The water’s nice, too. Soft, too. Warm, too. He shuts his eyes and luxuriates in the sensations.

 

“Don’t drown yourself!” Gwaine yells up after a bit.

 

The waters starting to cool so Arthur gets out and wriggles into the dressing gown Gwaine left, smiling when it’s Gwaine’s, super soft and something Arthur’s fond of stealing for himself, instead of his own old ratty one. There’s a pair of slippers our in the hallway, warmed under the radiator there, and a pair of sweats, also heated. Arthur puts both on and pads down to the kitchen.

 

“You’re spoiling me,” he says, getting behind Gwaine at the stove and leaning into his strong back.

 

“I am. You got caught in the rain.”

 

“Stupid country. Seriously, let’s move to the Sahara.”

 

“Antartic is the biggest desert in the world.”

 

“Not going there, I’m not a penguin. Let’s watch the John Lewis add again.”

 

“No,” Gwaine groans, turning away from his pasta sauce and turning in Arthur’s arms.

 

“Kay. Not Antarctic, I’d have to watch it every night there.”

 

“Not the Antarctic, I promise. Do you really want to go somewhere new?”

 

“Dunno. Might be nice.”

 

“I can get work. School’s offered me a few things, they know I have restless feet and want to keep me because I’m awesome. There was a six month contract in Sweden.”

 

“Even colder there this season.”

 

“Well… they have offered me something in South Africa. They’re struggling to find teachers to go out there. They are offering me senior teacher on a rolling monthly contract as I am trained to be a director of studies. If they train me, I’d be expected to work eighteen months for them out there as director of studies. It’s a good opportunity, interesting adventure, training possibilities, experience.”

 

“Why didn’t you take it?”

 

“They’ll offer me training here, eventually. I just have to work a bit longer for it.”

 

Arthur likes the sound of that. Hot sun, new people, new places. He’s bored, here, not working. He’s looked into going back to school, but it hasn’t really gripped his interest. Gwaine pulls away to deal with the pasta and the subject is dropped in favour of spoiling Arthur.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The doorbell goes. Arthur tosses the magazine he was reading onto the coffee table and goes to answer it’s call, grateful to whoever’s there for interrupting his boring afternoon. He really, really needs to find something to do with himself or he’s going to go absolutely crazy. He flings open the door and beams at the person opposite him.

 

“Oh, hi Percy!” He says, surprised.

 

“That is a very odd mix of confusion, pleasure and disappointment.”

 

“Well, I’m confused because I wasn’t expecting you and you’re not usually one to just pop round, I’m pleased because I’m bored out of my skull and I’m disappointed because you’re here to see Gwaine, who isn’t here, so you’ll probably go and leave me to my boredom and what will I do then, may I ask? I’ve been reading OK.”

 

“OK?”

 

“You know, gossip rag. Full of misery porn and pictures of celebrities’ wobbly bits?”

 

“Right. Obvious choice for you.”

 

“It’s Gwaine’s. I got through National Geographics, an entire book, a chunk of Tristrum Shandy and Rolling Stones already this morning.”

 

“Jesus, you read a lot.”

 

“Nope. Just bored.”

 

“Gwaine said I should come by after work, sometime. Um, I can go?”

 

“No!” Arthur grips Percy’s coat at the shoulder and pulls him into the house.

 

Percy gives him a surprised look when he all but sails into the hall.

 

“You’re stronger than you look,” he says, straightening his coat and then shrugging out of it.

 

“Not sure if that’s a compliment or not. Do you want tea? Coffee? Apple juice? Homemade fudge? Homemade paties? Homemade- I baked yesterday.”

 

“You should find something productive to do.”

 

“I’m looking. Gwaine suggested South Africa as a place to move, and that’d be fun, but I don’t think he wants to very much. Ha! Now I want to go wandering and he wants to stay put. I’d go somewhere on my own but…”

 

Arthur trails off, wondering how to put it. In the end he just taps his head and makes a silly face, ducking out.

 

“Right. What?”

 

“Sometimes I forget where I’m supposed to be, or I have a seizure and forget <i>who</i> I’m supposed to be, or I damage myself through lack of co-ordination, or… basically, It’s safer to have someone with me.”

 

“Oh. Right. Well, you could always come with me.”

 

Arthur thinks that over, then grins and tugs Percy through to the kitchen and sits him down, deciding to offer tea and good food to temper the interrogation he has to perform. Once Percy has a mug and a plate of cookies, fudge and orange slices in front of him Arthur sits down opposite and gets started.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Nowhere very exciting. I’m doing an upgrade of some softwear for the top brass in the company’s Australian branch.”

 

“Australia! That sounds far.”

 

“It’s far. I’m flying via Hong Kong on the way home, stopping off for a few days. I’m taking a week off while I’m out there, too, as it’s on the beach. Thought I’d give surfing a go.”

 

“I can surf. We used to surf in Wales. And Cornwall.”

 

“No sharks in Wales or Cornwall.”

 

“Not many in Australia, either, that eat you at least. More people get killed by cows. There were dolphins in Wales a few times, and seals in Cornwall. When are you going?”

 

“Next month. It’ll be eleven days, altogether, so it’d be more a holiday than Gwaine’s habit of just chucking himself into a place.”

 

“Hotel or hostel?”

 

“Hotel.”

 

“How much?”

 

“I can call you my partner and put you on expenses, mostly. If Gwaine doesn’t mind sharing that particular title.”

 

“He calls us lovers,” Arthur says, showing his distaste, “so the title’s all yours. What are flights like?”

 

“You’d have to pay for that, actually, don’t think I can justify… anyway, the price’ll depend on… stuff.”

 

“Yeah. What are they like?”

 

“Long? Two layovers on the way out, just Hong Kong on the way home.”

 

“And I could really come?”

 

“Sure. Why not? It’d be good to get to know you better, what with you being practically married to my best mate.”

 

“Best mate. That’s juvenile.”

 

“You have one.”

 

“Who? Merlin? He’s not my best mate, he’s my platonic… thing. Manservant. I’m so totally coming to Australia with you and scaring the shite out of you with my weird Merlin relationship.”

 

Percy smiles and gets stuck in on the fudge. He seems to have said all that he’s going to, so Arthur gets himself a cup of tea and plans it out in his head. If he meets people and makes friends with them, he can stay for longer. Maybe. Or Maybe Gwaine’ll take time off work and come for a week and he can stay. If he gets to know the place and maybe sees about finding a doctor, maybe then he can stay, too. He’ll have to do research. He’s still thinking up beautiful possibilities when Gwaine gets home, soaked to the skin and cursing in Irish.

 

“It’s fucking tipping it down out there,” Gwaine says, stomping into the kitchen completely naked, “oh, hi Perce. I’m wet and cold and want sex, Arthur.”

 

“Not sure Percy’ll be into watching us do the dirty on the kitchen floor. Besides, it’s unsanitary. Go get in the shower, I’ll get you clothes and things like you did for me.”

 

“I remember making you orgasm.”

 

“I’ll make you orgasm later, once Percy is no longer in audience.”

 

“in audience? Posh git.”

 

Gwaine stomps upstairs, making sure to be loud. Arthur rolls his eyes.

 

“Are you staying for dinner, mate?” he asks, getting up and looking in a cupboard.

 

“If that’s okay? Not if you have plans.”

 

“Nope. I was planning on eating left overs, but Gwaine’ll want proper food. Might make pasta bake.”

 

Arthur roots through stuff, eventually coming up with a tin of kidney beans. He frowns at them, then shrugs.

 

“Or baked potatoes,” he says.

 

“Baked potatoes,” Gwaine says, jumping down the stairs to grab a towel that’s hanging on the radiator in the hall.

 

Arthur gets a little distracted, watching Gwaine jog back up the stairs in nothing but a pair of hipster trunks. He has to remind himself that Percy’s watching (and laughing, he discovers when he turns), and to get on with potatoing.

 

“Don’t laugh at me,” he says, “Gwiane has a really nice arse, Percy. It’s like… muscular and has soft hair on, just a mattering, just a little, and he has lovely skin, and- sorry.”

 

“I’ve heard Gwaine rhapsodise about his own bum too many times to mind it. I’m impervious, it’s my super power. Did you notice? Not even a flinch when he paraded about naked. Though, I am glad he put underwear on before jumping about. Even I’m only numbed and not impervious to him flopping about everywhere. He once streaked through campus. Not a pretty sight.”

 

Arthur laughs, emptying the can of beans into a pan and adding baked beans, chopping up some fresh tomatoes to chuck in, too. He doesn’t heat them, just chucks everything in the pan and sits again. Then jumps up, remembering to put stuff out for Gwaine.

 

Gwaine sits in his pyjamas, stuffing his mouth with food and talking around it to Percy. Arthur watches him, neglecting his own potato in favour of paying attention to the slow but steady demolition of Gwaine’s. His hair’s growing out again, hanging damp around his ears, curling slightly at the ends. His eyes are bright with enthusiasm, face mobile with whatever he’s saying. He tosses his head back every now and then, flicking the hair out of his eyes and spraying little flecks of water Arthur’s way.

 

“You’re eating air, there, Arthur,” Percy says.

 

Arthur looks down. His fork, empty save for a few bits of potato that are stuck, is half way to his mouth.

 

“You’ve been doin it for a while,” Gwaine stage whispers, leaning close.

 

Arthur frowns at his fork, then down at his mostly full plate, then at Gwaine.

 

“Oh,” he says, distracted again by Gwaine, by his smile.

 

Arthur smiles back stupidly.

 

“I talked to my boss today,” Gwaine says, as if sharing a secret, “and she says if I don’t want the South Africa job  they’re looking for someone closer to home.”

 

“England’s too rainy,” Arthur says.

 

“He’s coming with me to Australia,” Percy says, but he’s ignored by both of them.

 

“England’s too rainy, but what would you think about Portugal?”

 

“It’s a small country bordered by Spain and the sea. It has nice beaches,” Arthur says, aware that he sounds like a blurb on a website but kind of liking it.

 

It sounds sarcastic.

 

“Yeah yeah,” Gwaine says, “what do you think of it, though? Of living there?”

 

“It’s very blue,” Arthur says, losing something in his uncertainty.

 

“Blue?”

 

“the sea,” Arthur explains, gesturing helplessly, “the sea there. It’s blue.”

 

“It’s a three year contract as senior teacher, which is where the compromise comes in. After that I will be able to apply for DOS jobs in-company. The DOS in Portugal is willing to do a bit of training to give me an edge.”

 

“Good.”

 

“It’s in Almada, which is near Lisbon. You should be able to find something to do with yourself in Lisbon if nothing else.”

 

“Are we going there?” Arthur asks, uncertainty giving way to confusion.

 

“Not necessarily. You good right now?”

 

“Yuh.”

 

“Not going to have a seizure out of panic?”

 

Arthur looks down at his potato and concentrates on eating it until everything fizzing around inside of him starts to make more sense. Excitement, trepidation, outright fear. He can still go to Australia, stay for just the week. Get his adventure from Portugal, with Gwaine. It would still rain, but they’d get loads of sun.

 

“Merlin will like Portugal,” Arthur says, when he’s eaten everything on his plate.

 

Gwaine and Percy stop their conversation and Gwaine beams at him. Percy gives him a pretend wounded look.

 

“What about our expedition to Oz? Not enough for you, being my partner?”

 

“I’m still coming to Australia to be your partner. I assume Gwaine’s not being shipped off this second. And if he is, I can join him later when I’ve been to Australia.”

 

“Wait, wait,” Gwaine says, “why are you two each other’s partner all of a sudden? I’m your partner, Arthur!”

 

“Nope, you’re just my lover,” Arthur says.

 

“Oh crap. Fine, I’ll stop using it.”

 

“Jealous?” Percy asks, grinning, winking at Arthur.

 

Arthur winks back and leans on his hand, gazing at Percy, sighing.

 

“Stop it. Yes, fine, I’m jealous. You’re turning me green, please stop,” Gwaine says, then looks a bit baffled and touches his stomach, “Wow. Jealousy. That’s certainly new.”

 

“Portugal,” Arthur says, turning to him, abandoning his game, “I’d better tell Merlin, huh? And I’ll email Morgana, even though she never emails back. And I’ll tell- no, you tell your Mum.”

 

Arthur gets up and runs upstairs, already mentally packing his house up. He can store most of it, rent the house out while they’re gone, make some more money. What he’ll do in Portugal he has no idea, other than learning the language. He’ll show Gwaine how ‘useless’ Latin is. Root of most European language, very appropriate area of study. He gets half way up the stairs, then runs back to kiss Gwaine.

 

 

 


	6. chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this, I am not in a writing mood but I did feel like... well... huh.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Gwaine?"

 

"Have you booked the tickets Arthur or are you still messing about on Tumblr? We need to get this done."

 

"Can we fly TAP?"

 

"Sure. Why?"

 

"Oh, no reason. Their logo."

 

"If it's cheap and they do what we want, book the damn thing."

 

* * *

 

 

Gwaine took a photo of me eating a cake today in the airport and put it on Facebook and everyone laughed and I want to come home and be with you instead of being in Portugal with him because he's mean. Merlin, commandeer a pirate ship and get over here now!

 

 

* * *

 

 

Forgave Gwaine and made him an awesome cake. Thanks for calling, Merls, much better now and we're settling in. As evidenced by the AWESOME BIRTHDAY CAKE! 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Went out as James bond today, scouring the beach for jet-skis topped with rifle-men. Gwaine got cross because I made him paddle and he was wearing long trousers, and because I made him be the damsel in distress instead of the awesome ninja-chick-side-kick, because he forgot his sunglasses. Come visit again soon, Merry. It's not the same being James Bond without Q :(

 

 

* * *

 

 

The club you discovered is amazing! Went back there, with Gwaine, and he said I shouldn't flail so much because people don't want to get a face full of arm-pit hair, but I reminded him I'm blonde and svelt and therefore no one cares. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Finally got Gwaine on a surfboard today. He was not pleased. It was raining, so I don't blame him, and he's absolutely crap at it. Even Percy was better than him, Merlin! 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Showed Gwaine how you do it today. I grew my hair long, I can fit it into a tiny pony tail now, so I am a proper surfer dude. Gwaine only took a shit picture, so it's a shit picture. He told me to wave, but I flailed instead, so I look like an idiot. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Finally worked out what Gwaine means when he tells me he's 'working late' and then comes home with nothing done. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Elena's teaching here over Christmas, because Gwaine suggested her as cover after she said she was gonna rip her Dad's 'stupid oligarch head off' if she had to stay in Russia and pretend that her horses were his any longer. It gets cold even here. Please come for Christmas this year, even if someone else asks you, like your mother. She doesn't deserve you for Christmas! Oh. I feel mean. Bring her along, we'll take her to the beach and teach her to surf!

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gwaine tried to make me a cake Merry. It went interesting. To be fair, it actually tasted quite good, like solid hot chocolate. I ate mine with marshmallows. One more year before we come home. I might be coming back six month early, though. I got onto the masters course at home, and it starts in September. Just have to decide if I actually want to do the damn thing! Anyway. Cake. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Merlin, help, where are you? I'm lost. I hate Heathrow. It's cold. I want to go back to Portugal. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the two cakes I found on Google here: http://photos.jibble.org/Food%20and%20Drink/Birthday%20Cakes/P1020613%20Homemade%20birthday%20cake%20with%20Smarties.html
> 
> and here: http://room404.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/Ruths-Disaster-Cake-by-ibeamee-Amy-G.-cc-by-nc.jpg
> 
> the rest of the pictures I drew.


	7. chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! The final instalment in the Gwaine Arthur saga.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly done now! I think there'll be just one or two more updates. hanks for reading along.

 

Merlin opens the door, in what Gwaine is pretty certain are Arthur's ridiculous striped socks of all neon colours. It was surprising enough when Percy got him from the airport, rather than Arthur as expected, but to be greeted by Merlin is taking it a bit far. Gwaine's tired, he stinks, he's hungry, he hates flying, and here he is getting to see all the people except who he actually wants to see. As he's thinking this Nim ducks under Merlin's arm and demands to be picked up.

"I'll get your stuff," Percy says, blithely, unconcerned by all this strangeness and lack of Arthur.

"Hi Gwaine," Merlin says, "Sean! Mol! Gwaine's here."

Gwaine watches Merlin scoop Nim up to balance on one hip, tipping her across so she can hug Gwaine hello. Gwaine's still getting used to her being a person and not just a photograph, someone who he skypes with and writes postcards to rather than someone Molly and his Mum talk about on the rare phonecalls he used to make. Sean comes pelting out and crashes into Gwaine's knees.

"Uncle Gwaine!" he yells.

"Hello Gwaine," Molly says, peering over Merlin's shoulder.

She, too, is wearing the awful socks. Gwaine decides that's the easiest thing to address, but then he notices that both kids are wearing them to.

"Why are you all- wait, how? Arthur's feet aren't that small," Gwaine says.

"I bought them all socks to match mine," Arthur says, from _behind_ Gwaine.

Gwaine spins, trips over Percy and his bags. If this were a film he'd fall into Arthur's waiting arms, but it's not a film and Gwaine has a split second to realise that Arthur is steering a push bike with one hand, the other busy stopping a pile of books from sliding out from under his arm and a bag slung over one shoulder. Arthur yells, but does nothing else to catch Gwaine, so he tries to catch himself and ends up sprawled on the little patch of grass.

"At least you're waiting to catch me," he says, stroking the grass in gratitude.

"Hullo, Gwaine," Arthur says, peering down at him, "did you hurt yourself with your Merlin-worthy display of clumsiness?"

"No. All your fault. Why's everyone wearing your socks? Why's everyone _here_? Why was I picked up by Percy and greeted by Merlin? How are Molly and the kids even in England, let alone here? I Skyped you this morning and called you when I landed, why am I suddenly being ambushed by weird socks?" Gwaine says, ending on a wail.

"Right. Oh. Um... Merls?" Arthur says, then there's rustling, then Gwaine's being lifted bodily back to his feet and dragged into the house.

He decides to stay limp and pathetic and make Arthur all but carry him. He also mumbles a bit more about the baffling socks and awfulness of Merlin and Percy's ugly faces, and the wretchedness about air-travel. Arthur hauls him into the livingroom and shuts the door on their guests, props Gwaine up on his legs and then hugs him. Gwaine accepts the hug and supports his own weight, mostly, leaning into Arthur's familiar Arthur-ness.

"Two and half years of you has ruined me," Gwaine says, "Six months without you was hell. Heathrow was hell. I hate Heathrow, why did they make Heathrow?"

"I think Crowley did it. You know, M25, Heathrow, self service checkouts. Small stuff," Arthur says.

"Stop laughing at me. It was traumatic."

"I confess that when I flew in I took a photo of where I was and sent it to Merlin, then sat on my suitcase and waited for rescue."

"Of course you did. I would have texted you, but no, Percy was there instead."

"You didn't text me, don't be a baby. When we talked last night you said you didn't mind if I didn't collect you."

"That's only because you said you were going to!"

"...oh. Sorry."

"Sorry? That's it? And what about the socks?"

"I told you. I bought them all socks. You know, house-guest-socks, complimentaries when staying at chez-Arthur."

"but- wait, you give guests complimentaries? How come I never got any?"

"Because you were always an intruder."

"You could have at least paused."

"Didn't need to."

"Why are there so many feet that need your house-guest-socks?"

"I invited Mol to come stay some time, and she was faster than I expected. I think she's trying to escape Jamie, who's working nights and giving up smoking and drinking and- yeah. Quite the moody bloke, at the moment. He bit my head off last time we talked for wearing the wrong colour t-shirt. Proper yelled at me and huffed off in a strop."

"Why are you talking to James and calling him Jamie? And inviting my sister to stay?"

"James is nice. Mol... needs to see you more than you allow. You need to talk to her, by the way, let her yell at you a bit."

"I don't want to be ye-"

"Right. Enough whining. Enough being pathetic. She'll yell, you'll apologise and say you thought she hated you, she'll cry, you'll cry, you'll hug, me and the kids'll get back with ice cream and make it all better. It'll be fine. You don't have to do it right this second."

"Why's Merlin here?"

"Okay, that's the last whine i'm allowing. Merlin's here... uh... Well,see... the thing is..."

Gwaine waits.

"I pined," Arthur says, finally, pulling away, jaw tight.

Gwaine laughs and cups his face, biting his nose gently.

"I did, too. Total pineage on my end," Gwaine says, "What is with the size of beds?"

"I know! And they're so cold!"

"And I only have two feet at night. Four feet is much better, even if it is difficult to work out which ones to take when going to the bathroom."

"And talking of the bathroom, what am I meant to do in the mornings without the smell of your shower gel? And what am I meant to wash with? I stopped buying my own and just steal yours. And how on earth am I meant to find socks without you to find them where I absently discard them and ball them into pairs once they're clean?"

"I have been living off instant noddles, cereal and pasta. And, god, you know how you were trimming my hair when you noticed split ends? Look at the state of this!"

Arthur takes the handful of hair Gwaine holds up, focusing on it, rubbing it between his fingers, and then he lunges and they bump noses, teeth, Gwaine's pretty sure he accidentally bites Arthur's cheek, but then finally lips, breath, lips...

"God, get a room, guys."

Gwaine ignores Merlin.

"Seriously, Nim wants to play the dragon game so we need the sofa," Merlin says.

"You know, Gwaine, we do have a lot of houseguests. You're right. And tomorrow you have off, and I can easily skip the library and work on Sunday instead and I haven't any seminars or anything," Arthur says.

"Yeah," Gwaine says, "so? House-guests. In house-guest-socks."

"Don't dis the socks, man," Molly says, shoving Merlin into the room.

"Uncle Gwaine!" Nim says, flinging herself in after her mother.

"Merlin has an empty flat," Arthur whispers, close to Gwaine's ear, then pulls back and frowns, checks his watch, "guys, I just remembered, we need ketchup for tomorrow's bar-b. I'm gonna drag Gwaine out to get some, fresh air might freshen up his horrible mood."

Gwaine nods and then scowls around to demonstrate said mood. Merlin snorts at them, but backs them up by muttering about ketchup and creates a disturbance by lifting Sean and making him shriek with laughter, joy and terror. Molly turns to check on him and Gwaine is yanked out. Percy's coming down the stairs, now in socks matching everyone else. Arthur hesitates, so Gwaine pulls him onwards and out the front door. They break into a run.

"Why does Percy have socks?" Gwaine asks, at the corner.

"House-gu-" Arthur starts, slowing to a walk.

"Socks," Gwaine says.

"Right. Socks. He has 'em because I... well, pining is HARD to do on your own, and it's still hard with one extra person, so I got in two. Maybe. Shut up and leave me alone."

"Why didn't you come meet me if you missed me so much? and don't give me that bollocks about me saying I didn't mind."

Arthur slows from 'walk' to 'shuffle' and tucks himself into Gwaine's side, going bright red. Gwaine links their arms to create a bit of space so he can watch Arthur's face.

"I just missed you. Like painful, radiating missing of you. I needed you here, this morning, when I woke up. I wanted you here, and you weren't, and I was a total mess and I didn't want Molly and the kids to see that, so I went to uni and pretended to be asleep with my jumper over my head in the common room for a bit, till I calmed down. I have a lot of work, it's really hard."

"So you sulked in the library for a bit. Still not an explanation."

"I _missed_ you, Gwaine. I couldn't just sit there waiting. I couldn't wait, it was too hard. So I put Percy on collection duty and lost myself in text books. I didn't have to keep track of the time, so I put on music and got myself immersed and... God, I missed the crap out of you, you wanker."

Arthur comes to a stop, and Gwaine watches, fascinated, as the tears leak down his cheeks. He's hunched, shivering a bit. Gwaine sighs and gathers him close, closer, closest, breathing his air, shushing him, breathing _him_.

"Arthur," he says, "Arthur."

"Six twatting months. Not doing that again, you're not allowed to leave till I finish this stupid course and can follow you."

"Okay. Okay, yeah. One weekend in six months is not enough."

Gwaine waits, but Arthur's done. They turn and start walking again, glued together. They break into a run again, fingers scrabbling, linking, and crash into Merlin's flat, mouths coming together, bodies, teeth, lips.

A hour later they lie in a tangle of sheets and duvet, sweat-covered, breathing easier, and Gwaine notices that Arthur's wearing the rainbow neon socks, too.

 

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gwaine breathes a sigh of relief when their house-guests (along with complimentary socks) leave. Arthur kept them all around for the whole weekend, just to amuse himself at Gwaine’s expense. He kept just looking at Gwaine and bursting out laughing. To be fair to him, he’d snuck away with Gwaine whenever Gwaine grumbled, and they’d spent a fair bit of time alone, at theirs or at Merlin’s. But, it’s still nice when Merlin finally leaves.

 

“I’m gonna take a nap,” Arthur says, stretching, revealing a pale line of stomach, shirt riding up.

 

Gwaine growls.

 

“And then I think I’ll pop to the library, kay? Got a load of stuff that I’ve been putting off,” Arthur continues, leaning to the side, then shaking himself all over.

 

Gwaine tackles him into the wall and then carries him upstairs. Arthur just laughs, arse in the air in a fire-man’s lift, entirely undignified, jackal-laughing his head off. Gwaine dumps him on the bed and collapses on top of him, pinning him.

 

“Well?” Arthur asks, “now what?”

 

“Now I ravish you thoroughly.”

 

“Nah, I want a nap.”

 

“Don’t whine.”

 

Gwaine lets Arthur nap, though. Because he’s nice. And because Arthur napped means energetic Arthur and energetic Arthur means energetic Arthur sex. And energetic Arthur sex is…

 

Six hours later, Gwaine lies on his stomach, arm hanging limply off the bed, soaked in sweat, gasping for breath.

 

“Holy hell, you’re a monster,” he mumbles, into a mouthful of disgusting sheet.

 

“I love your bum, Gwaine,” Arthur says, ignoring that, “it’s so sculpted. And tanned. Have you been sunbathing naked? I bet you have.”

 

Arthur kisses the skin he’s just been describing and Gwaine moans, shivering all over his body as he attemps to react.

 

“Leave me alone,” he grumbles, “I’m sensitive _everywhere._ ”

 

“Good. Very good.”

 

Arthur’s hands run over his back, over his arse, down his thighs, to tickle his feet. Gwaine spasms, falling off the bed with a thud. Arthur flails after him, like a dog initiating a new game, yelling wildly, and rolls them over the floor, laughing, grappling, growling. They come to a rest against the wall and Arthur sucks on Gwaine’s nose.

 

“Arth, Arthur… _Arthur_!”

 

Arthur sits back, straddling Gwaine’s hips, grinning down. His hair’s a birds’ nest, eyes bright, face flushed. He’s not as sweaty as Gwaine, which Gwaine takes as an affront.

 

“Get off. I let you nap, now you have to let me nap,” Gwaine grumbles.

 

“How is it that sex of all things makes you grumpy?”

 

“It’s not the sex. It’s the enthusiastic puppy treatment that always comes right after.”

 

Arthur bounces on Gwaine’s stomach, then jumps up and heaves Gwaine to stand, then carries him bridal style to the bed and curls around him. Gwaine waits, tense, for Arthur’s usual energy and bounce, but he seems, for once, content to lie still and quiet, humming to himself.

 

“Huh,” Gwaine says, unable to keep from tempting fate, “are you sick? You’re never still. Shall I call an ambulance?”

 

“I like watching you,” Arthur says, “when you’re all skin, like this. Shh. Go to sleep so I can waaaatch yooouuuu.”

 

Gwaine gets up and pulls on his boxers, entirely freaked out.

 

“I’m never gonna sleep now, you wanker,” he says, “that’s just creepy.”

 

“You were in the wet spot anyway. I want food, Gwaine. And I am not cooking, and I don’t wanna go outside all by myself. Will you walk to the chippy with me?”

 

“What happened to liking me when I’m all skin?”

 

Gwaine tugs on his clothes, though, and then turns. Arthur’s still lying on the bed, grinning up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling an excitable rhythm. He rolls onto his front and buries himself in the blankets.

 

“Arthur. Chippy.”

 

“Mmf. Can you go?”

 

Gwaine stares in disbelief, then bursts out laughing.

 

“You manipulating, wanking bastard!”

 

“Am not,” Arthur said, “didn’t mean to be creepy. And I did wanna go to the chippy. I’ve lost my pep.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“I missed you.”

 

Gwaine sits on the side of the bed and sighs, rubbing Arthur’s naked back, enjoying the feeling of muscle and skin. Arthur’s been doing this the last few days. Kind of drooping, now and then, into misery.

 

“I won’t leave you alone like that, not for that long,” Gwaine promises, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Not your fault. I didn’t think… I was okay, when you were gone, aside from the pining and stuff. I was fine. It worked. I just, now that you’re back, I missed you so much.”

 

“Why do you want me gone, now?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You always tidy me away elsewhere. When you feel like this. Like, to the chippy, for example.”

 

Arthur shifts. Pushes further into the pillows, hands fisting.

 

“You were gone,” he says.

 

“And?”

 

“I want to know that you’ll come back. I. I can’t, please.”

 

“Okay, okay. Just stuff, right?”

 

“Yeah. Stuff.”

 

Baggage. They’ve actually dealt with most of it, in Portugal. Most of Arthur’s embarrassments and fears, a lot of Gwaine’s grief and guilt, they’ve done a lot of talking. But this, this terror that everyone is going to leave, Arthur can’t seem to heal that.

 

“Alright. I’ll go to the chippy, get you a battered sausage. Okay?”

 

“Kay.”

 

Gwaine leaves Arthur to cling to his pillows and do his thing and goes downstairs. He digs out a jumper and decides to put the kettle on before he goes, so they can have tea with tea. He’s tying his shoes when Arthur comes down in joggers and what seems to be Percy’s hoody, and puts his shoes on, too.

 

“You coming with?” Gwaine asks.

 

Arthur nods. He tucks his hand into Gwaine’s pocket and keeps his head down, keeps quiet, even when the shop owner greets him familiarly. Gwaine wonders how many times Arthur’s eaten here while they’ve been apart.

 

“He’s not feeling great,” Gwaine answers for him, “how’re you?”

 

“Good, good! Usual?”

 

“What’s his usual?”

 

“Cheesy chips and a battered sausage.”

 

“Yup. Two, please. And can I get a can of Coke?”

 

Arthur slinks closer and leans into him.

 

“Oh, you do look poorly, Arthur. You sure you want chips? I got a soup on, out back.”

 

“Chips are good,” Gwaine says, grinning, “not that kind of sickness.”

 

The man behind the counter laughs and scoops huge stacks of chips out, piling on the cheese and dropping three sausages on top, with a wink. Gwaine lugs Arthur back across the road and makes him a cup of tea, waiting for him to emerge from his funk.

 

“I think I missed these chips more than I missed you,” he admits, later.

 

Arthur laughs, finally looking up.

 

“Sorry,” he says, “just flaked out on you.”

 

“It’s fine. You probably need more sleep than you’ve been getting, we should sort out a schedule.”

 

“Mm. Probably.”

 

“It’ll help my insomnia, too. Proper bedtime, that shite.”

 

“More tea?”

 

Gwaine gets him some. Arthur revives entirely by the time they’re done with tea and by the time Gwaine flicks on an old David Attenburgh ‘Life’ episode Arthur’s off, doing his own thing, retreated to the office to get work done.

 

Gwaine has two weeks off before getting stuck in with four weeks’ teaching while he applies for DOS jobs. He has to talk to Arthur about where he wants to live, long term, before he starts that though. He’s pretty sure that if Arthur’s up for living abroad he can get a short contract in the UK while Arthur finished his masters. Gwaine, sitting on the sofa on day three of his days off, looks up from his book and frowns as he realises he doesn’t actually know what Arthur’s doing a masters _in._ He knows it’s some aspect of International Relations, but he doesn’t know what aspect. Maybe Arthur can be a diplomat.

 

“Gwaine?” Arthur asks, five hours later, stumbling in under a pile of books which he dumps on the table before dumping himself on the sofa, “hi.”

 

“Hello,” Gwaine says, putting his book away and wriggling his fingers in invitation.

 

Arthur moans and slumps himself face first across Gwaine’s lap. Gwaine had been rather expecting a lap full of feet rather than a lap full of shoulders, but he gets started on the muscles of Arthur’s back, trying to be unphased. He starts with broad strokes, but the tension quickly releases and Gwaine finds the problem spots and starts working on the muscle of Arthur’s neck and left shoulder.

 

“Did you do something to this again?” he asks, of the shoulder.

 

He knows Arthur dislocated it at some point in the past and sometimes he fucks it up through carelessness.

 

“No. Just been hunched over in the library all day.”

 

“How’d the meeting with your tutor go?”

 

“Don’t ask. It’s dreadful. I’m hopeless, I’m gonna fail.”

 

Arthur sounds fairly cheerful about it all so Gwaine doesn’t bother soothing, just hums in agreement which makes Arthur snort.

 

“Was thinking, earlier, about where we’re going to live,” Gwaine says.

 

“Here?” Arthur suggests, head butting Gwaine in the crotch as he wriggles around.

 

“Careful, that’s a delicate area.”

 

“Yay, new euphemism. Hey there, Gwaine, why don’t we introduce your delicate area to my delicate area and see if they can make beautiful, delicate babies?”

 

“You are so very warped and weird, my friend.”

 

Arthur giggles and mutters something about ‘this way up,  contents fragile’ and then hums contentedly.

 

“I like England, long term,” Arthur admits.

 

Gwaine’s worked out the tension by the time Arthur does admit that, and he’s just pressing broad, comforting strokes over Arthur’s back and shoulders. He’s careful not to hesitate or pause.

 

“What about short-long term?” Gwaine asks, “Like Portugal?”

 

“I’m not sure I’m up for country hopping. Sorry. I liked Portugal, I especially liked being better at Portuguese than you, and I like the adventure and the people we met and so on, but maybe not something I want to do, moving every two, three years.”

 

“What about doing a five year contract, somewhere outside of Europe? I don’t mind staying in England, don’t get me wrong, but I would like to look at options.”

 

“Fair enough. Look around, then, see what’s on offer, if anywhere appeals. You’d have to get a contract here for a bit, though.”

 

“Till you finish.”

 

“Longer. I need to establish a base here again, before jetting off anywhere. Sorry. I would just go, but I know myself better. I’d rather do five years, comfortable and happy and be good for you, than rush it and make us both miserable.”

 

“Sure. I’ll look into DOS positions here, in that case. Are you wanting to stay here here, or somewhere else in England?”

 

“Prefer here here.”

 

“Cool.”

 

Gwaine makes a mental plan for next week, to start doing some research into the local schools, commuting options, things like that. Technically he could wait till he starts work again and have a proper holiday, but he’s gonna get bored before then.

 

“Do you want to do something tomorrow?” Arthur asks.

 

“Don’t you have school?”

 

“I’m taking off. My brain’s a bit fried.”

 

“Awesome! Maybe we could go somewhere in the car? Get out of the city, you know?”

 

“We could. Let’s drive up to Tintern abbey, Gwaine! Merlin’s Mum used to take us, sometimes. It’s amazing. And we could… we could maybe pop by and see Hunith?”

 

“Okay. Yeah. I like Hunith.”

 

“You’ve only met her once, and she was in Christmas mode. Wait until you see her angry.”

 

“Is that likely to happen?”

 

“Probably not, but you never know.”

 

“I can’t believe she agreed to go surfing.”

 

“She was better than you were. Stop being jealous of our skill and your uselessness and go make me dinner.”

 

“Demanding.”

 

Arthur doesn’t answer, just raises himself enough for Gwaine to slip out from under him and waits. Gwaine gives in and goes to make pasta.

 

Gwaine has heaps of fun at Tintern abbey, mostly embarrassing Arthur. He pretends to be a monk for a while, then pretends to be a knight and charges Arthur and nearly tackles them both into the river. Then he googles it on his phone and finds a poem, so he stands in the middle of the ruins and recites it, gathering himself an audience. And tips. He buys himself and Arthur an ice cream with the tips.

 

“I can’t believe you,” Arthur says, sitting on the grass over looking the river.

 

“What?” Gwaine asks, plunking down beside him.

 

“Can’t take you anywhere.”

 

“I was just giving in to my inner child.”

 

“Your inner something, anyway.”

 

Gwaine laughs, but he makes amends by giving Arthur half his ice cream and offering to drive the rest of the way to Hunith’s. Arthur falls asleep, between one story and the next, muttering about how tall the trees are and how old and something about Merlin falling out of a tree and breaking his arm, and then he’s gone. Gwaine whistles, because Arthur forbids that in the car.

 

Hunith’s waiting for them, in the road, and she watches Gwaine park anxiously. Gwaine jumps out and waves jovially, tamping down his nerves. Arthur’s still snoozing away, face tipped up to the sun, hair glowing white-blond.

 

“Oh good,” Hunith says, “You made it. I can never make myself trust these modern cars, no way of knowing what’s going on under the hood. Go through to the kitchen, I’ll wake Arthur.”

 

Gwaine does as he’s told, working out where the kitchen is by following the smell of baking. He makes himself at home at the table and is joined by a sleepy Arthur. Hunith bustles around making tea, talking about people Gwaine doesn’t know, asking Arthur questions but not giving him time to answer them before rattling on. Arthur watches her, smiling, intent, relaxed. Gwaine watches Arthur. At last Hunith sits down with tea and huffs out a sigh.

 

“Oh! Cookies,” she says, getting up and pulling a plate out of a cupboard, “I hid them so you wouldn’t eat them all before we got our tea.”

 

“I don’t do that,” Arthur says, but he takes a handful off the plate and starts dunking them carefully.

 

“How are you, Gwaine?” Hunith asks, offering him the plate, “take as many as you’ll want now, Arthur will eat whatever’s on the plate before you can blink.”

 

“I’m okay, working out what we’re doing next, thinking about jobs. Well, I’m mostly on holiday this week.”

 

“He gets up at two pm,” Arthur says, around a huge mouthful of biscuit, “love these.”

 

“That is why I had Mrs Wilkins make them. One day I’ll learn to actually cook,” Hunith says, ruefully, “I tried to make pasta sauce last night. It was inedible.”

 

“I love Mrs Wilkins,” Arthur says, taking another lot of biscuits.

 

“Who’s Mrs Wilkins?” Gwaine asks, quickly taking his own handful of cookies before they all vanish.

 

Hunith grins at him and puts the plate on the table, helping herself to only two.

 

“She’s the lady I work for. Up at the big house in the village, you probably drove past on your way out here? I do her cleaning and act as a sort of companion, sometimes.”

 

“It’s archaic,” Arthur says, crossly, “I wish you’d let me buy you a nice little house and me and Merlin can pay your bills and stuff. You wouldn’t have to be a servant.”

 

“I’m not a servant, Arthur, I’m a cleaner to a lonely old lady who pays well. It’s better than doing the picking in the summer, I can tell you.”

 

“I liked picking in the summer.”

 

“No one in their right mind likes picking,” Hunith says, tapping Arthur’s head gently, “and besides, we went easy on you because you were a kind, docile creature who kept people cheerful.”

 

“I got you all water and things, didn’t I? I just remember being super important and helpful and busy.”

 

Hunith laughs and pulls Arthur into her side, kissing his ear and touselling his hair. It’s affectionate and familiar and Gwaine feels something clench, thinking of his mother holding herself off him, not touching, careful. He takes a big bite of his biscuit.

 

“You were very important,” Hunith says, still half laughing, “you tripped all over the orchard, trying to get in the way, falling over. Used to eat half the apples you picked!”

 

“I did not. I fed them to Betsey.”

 

Hunith laughs harder and Arthur blushes.

 

“Betsey?” Gwaine asks.

 

“The Shetland pony who lived in the field near where we used to pick. You used to pocket the apples and feed them to the bloody horse? Oh Arthur, you…” Hunith shakes her head and goes back to laughing.

 

Arthur grins at Gwaine, dopey and pleased at being teased. Gwaine feels another clench, this one of affection, but also pain that Arthur has to come to Hunith for this. Gwaine’s only met Morgana, of Arthur’s blood relatives, and that was bad enough. And she was the best of the bunch. Not that she was unaffectionate, it just came with other things. Hunith’s amused, teasing affection is easy, free, and unconsciously given.

 

“Tell me how my son is,” Hunith says, gathering herself, “And tell him that he had better come visit soon.”

 

“I tell him all the time. Between him and Gwaine I am constantly telling someone to visit their mothers.”

 

Gwaine flushes, but Hunith just gives him a smile and moves on, not asking.

 

“Is he eating?”

 

“He’s gotten really fat,” Arthur says, promptly, without pausing, “and he has spots all over his face now. You prob’ly won’t recognise him, to be honest.”

 

“Arthur!” Hunith says, sliding the plate of biscuits away from Arthur’s reaching hand.

 

“He’s well,” Arthur says quickly, “he’s working, got stuff, hasn’t got a girlfriend, says I’m enough work for him. He’s busy, but he’s happy. I gave him socks.”

 

Hunith lets Arthur scoop the last cookies off the plate and turns to Gwaine.

 

“Socks?” She asks.

 

“House-guest socks, as complimentaries. He pined, when I was gone, and Merlin stayed with him. And Percy. And my sister. And her two children.”

 

Hunith reaches over to rub Arthur’s shoulder, then sighs.

 

“You stupid bastard,” She says, to Arthur, “why didn’t you just do whatever it was you needed to do?”

 

“Wanted him home, didn’t I? Couldn’t do that,” Arthur says.

 

“You could have called and talked to him about it, you foolish creature. Never mind. Next time you can’t ring this one,” she says, jerking her thumb Gwaine’s way, “ring me. I’ll set you right.”

 

“I did ring you,” Arthur says, plaintive, eyes going wide and pleading and rising from his cookies, “but you didn’t answer.”

 

Once Arthur’s finished his cookies they move through to the livingroom with a fresh pot of tea and Arthur and Hunith get on to local politics and then feminism and what it means these days and then they start talking about the river and Tintern. Gwaine just listens, enjoying Arthur’s sure voice washing over him, Arthur’s enthusiasm and knowledge. Gwaine’s not at all surprised to learn that Hunith was heavily into activism and had been arrested on more than one occasion.

 

Arthur’s quiet on the drive home, not complaining (like he usually does) when Gwaine puts on the radio and sings along. They stop at a services and Arthur sits, engine off, staring out the front.

 

“Are you… upset? Tired? Annoyed?” Gwaine asks.

 

“Huh? No. None. Why?”

 

“You’re extremely quiet. You’re never this quiet. And very tolerant of my annoying singing. And just very not-Arthur-ish.”

 

Arthur just shrugs and gets out of the car, jogging across to the building. Gwaine trails after him, entirely lost. It’s been a while since he was this craptastic at reading Arthur. He catches up and goes to take a leak and get a coffee. He finds Arthur sat at Burger King, a packet of chips in front of him, texting.

 

“Alright?” Gwaine asks, sitting down and stealing a few chips, “I love Burger King chips.”

 

“Fries,” Arthur says, then leans over to kiss Gwaine.

 

Now, Arthur isn’t one for PDA but he’s also not someone who _doesn’t_ kiss and stuff in public, so the kiss shouldn’t be anything surprising. Gwaine’s still taken aback by it, though.

 

“Arthur?” Gwaine asks, pulling away.

 

“Nothing,” Arthur says, “just, glad we did this.”

 

“Sat in a greasy Burg-“

 

“Stop it. I’m glad you did this. Glad you talked to me about what next, talked about five years time as ‘short term’, talked to your sister, let her yell, made that right. You haven’t even noticed. You’re all ready to settle down with me.”

 

“I don’t settle,” Gwaine says, automatically, but the swell of panic at the words doesn’t come.

 

“Shut up, you twat. You’re in a committed relationship and you’re not about to bolt and it’s amazing. I’m not afraid that you’ll leave.”

 

Arthur stares at him, eyes wide, then goes silent again. Gwaine leaves him to his quiet. But, Arthur’s right. He is committed, and he’s consciously committed. He actually wants this, wants to do this. He wants to live with Arthur, wants to be where he is, this country or another. He’ll put his wandering on hold, compromise. He can even think a little bit about children and, not marriage because he thinks it’s a sham and he doesn’t care what Arthur says about it, but maybe something. Something to legalise them as partners, maybe some kind of hippy ceremony. His Mum’ll think of something.

 

“Hunith can help,” he says out loud, laughing at the thought of his Mum and Arthur’s Hunith scheming together, “Mum can teach her to swear in Gaelic.”

 

“What are you on about? Never mind, do we need anything from the big Tesco while we’re this end of town? I don’t want to get the car out again for aaages. I hate driving.”

 

“I think we need milk and that’s about it. You went a bit crazy stocking up when we dropped Mol at the airport.”

 

“Oh yeah. Lidle! Woo. Okay. Chips?”

 

“You just ate Burger King chips.”

 

“Those were fries, I keep telling you. I want stodge.”

 

“Get chips if you want. I’ll eat that left over pasta from yesterday, okay?”

 

“Sure. We’ll go to Lottie’s, then, not the one out here. I’ll tell Lottie about your revelation about your Mum meeting Hunith to plan… what are they planning?”

 

“Our non-wedding.”

 

Gwaine decides that it’s a sign of strength that he isn’t embarrassed to admit that. Definitely a good sign for their non-marriage.

 

“Right. Okay. I’ll tell Lottie- wait, was that the proposal? If so, it’s shit and I demand a better one.”

 

“Sure, one day I’ll give you a better proposal.”

 

“Good. I’ll tell Lottie that you non-proposed non-marriage to me, and are already planning our non-wedding.”

 

“You do that, love.”

 

Arthur does that. He also tells Merlin and emails Morgana and even calls Gwen and Lance, which makes Gwen cry and beg to see them and then Arthur gets into a whole long discussion about forgiveness and having been in Portugal and sending her a postcard and thinking that counted as them being friends again (which is idiotic) and then there’s a long, long silence and Arthur grins, wider and wider.

 

“I shall be coming to meet her, but I have to go to college the next few days. Maybe Friday evening? Did you really call her that?” Arthur says, coming up to sit with Gwaine on the sofa, chips and cheese and battered sausage overflowing the plate, “Kay. Later. Bye, bye!”

 

“Who are you meeting? Gwen got a new gf?”

 

“Gf? Gf; girl friend. No, a baby. Daughter. Dd.”

 

“Dd?”

 

“Mumsnet. I think it stands for dear daughter.”

 

“Why have you been on mumsnet? Are you preggers, Arthur?”

 

“Lol. Laugh out Loud. No, I was on Buzzfeed and there was a list of funny things children do.”

 

“Wait, wait. Gwen’s baby. Am I coming to meet it?”

 

“Not much of a baby anymore. Yeah, you’re coming with. Obviously. I need to make you immune to babies so I can have one in the house without you having an allergic reaction.”

 

“One day.”

 

“One day.”

 

It only takes Gwaine six months to propose. He proposes the night Arthur agrees to live in Germany with him for a six year contract starting next summer, and Arthur says no and refuses to accept the proposal until Gwaine actually gets down on one knee and does it properly, even though Gwaine got flowers and cake and everything.

 

“Sorry,” Arthur says, pulling him up, “Of course I will. We’ll make it legal, and we’ll let Hunith and Merlin and your Mum and Mol and James and Sean and Nim and-“

 

“I get it, everyone important-“

 

“-do the planning for our party. Partners party? What shall we call it, if not marriage?”

 

“Commitment. We’ll have a commitment party.”

 

“Okay. I will do that. I’m sorry for making you do that, I was being a twat. I’m knackered and I have too much shite to do on this dissertation and I have no clue what I’m even doing.”

 

“You’re fine, the dis is good, don’t stress.”

 

Arthur looks at the ring, and frowns.

 

“Gwaine, I don’t want to wear this.”

 

Gwaine glares, then feels uncertainty flood him.

 

“No,” Arthur says, noticing, “no, not like that. I mean… you don’t want marriage, right? Why rings?”

 

“I like the ring.”

 

“It is nice. I want to have something that means something to you, though, not a thing that means stuff to the world, but nothing to you.”

 

Gwaine threads the ring onto Arthur’s thumb, instead of his finger, and links their hands.

 

“Like this,” he explains, and Arthur touches the ring, smiling.

 

“I have a ring for you. It’s not actually a ring, it’s a pendant. I got it from this little shop, I dunno if it’s… I mean…”

 

Arthur hurries away and comes back with a small box. It’s a small loop of dark metal threaded onto a chain.

 

“It’s great,” Gwaine says, ducking his head so Arthur can put it on him then holding it to look at, to feel the weight of, the texture of, “it’s… you’re…”

 

“Yeah.”

 

This time, Morgana emails back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

 

 

_Dear Arthur,_

_Thank you for telling me, for keeping me up to date and part of your life. I apologise for not doing the same for you. At first I didn’t want to, because I hated you, but the longer it’s been the more it’s been about me being ashamed. I was so angry. I’m sorry._

_Now, that’s out of the way. I’m going to come to England for your wedding thing, so warn everyone. I promise to leave Gwen alone. I know that she has a child, she told me. Thank you for dodging gently around that, being careful with us both._

_I don’t know what to say to you. My life doesn’t really go anywhere. I’m healing, and I’m better. I’m a better person. I think I got so caught up with caring for you that I forgot about myself, and that ended up damaging you. Bit of a paradox there. So now I’m out of that, hopefully. I’m going to sign out of here, when I come to your ceremony. I’ll stay in England for a bit, then move on._

_I think it should be a while before I live there long term again. You’re going to Germany, so I’ll go somewhere else. I might go to the US, visit Mum’s family. I mean the family that isn’t Morgause, I promise! I still see her, sometimes. I admit that I love her. I’m no longer deceived by her, though. I can see why you don’t think much of her._

_I’m glad that you’re happy and in a good place. I’m glad that Gwaine turned out to be nothing like I thought. I’m not really sorry about that bit of the whole business, to be honest. He demonstrated no good qualities! Okay, okay, so I was biased and shouldn’t have carried it on for so long and should’ve listened to you. I’m still not all that sorry, though. I was worried for you. I’ll never apologise for trying to protect you._

_On that note, I think that our contact should be gentle and slow. I know I have a lot to rebuild with you. We’ll do it, but let’s do it slowly. I promise to make things right with Merlin, too. That would be complicated, wouldn’t it? Being okay with you but not Merlin. I hear that Hunith is planning your ceremony. Awesome. Hippy in da house! No, really, she’s great and she’ll make it amazing. I’m in touch with her, by the way, so I’ll stay with her when I’m in the UK._

_Okay, well, I love you I guess. I’ll see you for your big gay wedding,_

_Love Morgana_

 

 

 


End file.
